Tombstone
by aussiebongo
Summary: Dean wants an easy job, something they can do with their eyes closed and he thinks he's found just the thing in Tombstone. But some eccentric locals and a spirit that isn't playing by the rules means nothing is ever easy
1. Chapter 1

This is the first writing collabaration between aussiemel and alibongo, an Aussie who likes a bit of angst and a Brit, with fond memories of Tombstone, who prefers light and fluffy. Witness the result.

Take an evil spirit, mix it up with some OC, add a dash of angst and a good slug of humour...and voila...you have 'Tombstone.'

This fiction is set in season 2 shortly after Fulsom Prison Blues. It's a multi chapter fic, looks like being about 11 chapters, and we should be updating regularly.

The language in the story is quite peppery (blame Ali for that) and we have taken some outrageous liberties with the history of the town of Tombstone.

**Disclaimer: **We have no right or entitlement to Supernatural and its characters. Frankly, they wouldn't want what we have to offer.

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Tombstone

**Chapter 1**

The mid afternoon sun was hazing on the road, reflecting the August heat, as the Impala purred along the highway leading into Tombstone, Arizona. It was open country to the left and right, low lying shrubs and trees struggling in the barren, dusty soil and the only impediment to an outlook that might have stretched for miles in every direction were natural bumps in the landscape, the earth's refusal to lay down.

Dean perched his elbow in the breach of the driver's window, tapped his index finger on the sill in lazy accompaniment to the music of the local radio station and savored the dusty air on his face chasing away the humidity. He noted the passing vista more out of instinct than interest, an inherent reflex to always be aware of his surrounds. He wasn't one to find country side beautiful or striking, he was too hard and unromantic for that sort of sensitivity, but he could appreciate a countryside where nothing was hidden, nothing was laying in wait. There was security in the emptiness and it gave him leave to let down his guard a little, uncoil the knots that gathered in his shoulders, turn his mind to thoughts other than their immediate safety.

"Huh."

Dean's eyes cut right, to where Sam was slouched against the passenger door, one too long leg folded across the other, immersed in a book, a tourist's guide to Tombstone that had been a free offering at the last gas station.

"What?"

"What?"

Sam's head jerked up, his brother's voice jolting him out of his thoughts. He'd been so engrossed in what he was reading that he'd lost track of where he was, forgotten Dean was sitting right next to him. It took a few beats to understand Dean's query then Sam waved a dismissive hand, tipped his head downward again and muttered, "Nothing."

"Don't do that," Dean complained. "Don't say _huh_ like you read something interesting and then tell me it's nothing. What is it?"

Without raising his eyes, Sam retorted, "What I find interesting and what you find interesting are very different things."

_Ain't that the truth_, Dean silently conceded, but was unwilling to be deflected. "Just tell me what it is."

When Sam remained unmoved Dean leaned fractionally toward him and added, "Don't make me punch it out of you, because you know how much I would enjoy that."

Sam expelled a long breath. No-one could make a nuisance of themself like Dean could, he had it down to a lazy art, the poking and prodding until you wanted to smack him in the face. It was an old, familiar dance between them, the power play, Dean asserting authority and Sam reluctant to bow. And on this occasion it was over information that Sam _knew _his brother wasn't going to be interested in. It was historical for a start, big cross there. It was an annoying and unnecessary attempt to provoke, which made Sam burn with indignation because all he wanted to do was quietly read.

But ignoring Dean or raising an objection would only incite a more insistent response, become a challenge. Dean was looking for an outlet for his boredom and Sam wasn't going to get any peace until he complied.

"You shouldn't punch and drive," Sam said dryly, wearily settling the book in his lap, a thumb tabbing the page, capitulating in the battle of wills.

He had difficulty finding focusing after being engaged in the close reading for so long and brought up a hand to rub his eyes, then stretched his neck from side to side to alleviate the tightness that had crept into his posture.

Dean waited for Sam to talk. He knew the signs, could see the white flag and was a little disappointed Sam was going to humor him and tell him what he'd been reading. Entering into a verbal sparring match, even having an argument, would have been more stimulating than being regaled with historical facts.

"It's nothing," Sam stated with a reinforcing shake of his head. "It's just weird to come across a town that embraces its ghosts. I mean, what we do is always so secretive and here is a town promoting its ghosts, urging people to come and have a look. This is a tourist book," Sam raised the book as exhibit A before dropping it into his lap again, "and it has some pretty creepy stories and photos. We're going to be able to walk into this town, say we're looking for ghosts and nobody will bat an eye. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if people encouraged us, told us where to look." As his eyes drifted back to the book he repeated, "It's just weird is all."

Dean tilted his temple toward Sam in acknowledgment. It was certainly going to be a new experience if they could undertake the job without subterfuge and trickery.

But then where was the fun in that.

"Maybe we should make this town our base of operations."

"Yeah," Sam agreed distractedly, not really listening.

As the desert started to recede, replaced by low density housing and the hallmarks of suburbia, Sam eyes darted between his book and the passing view, not wanting to miss any landmarks on the way into the historic town.

A sign appeared to the left with directions to 'Boothill Graveyard'.

"Huh."

"Come on," Dean snapped, with such irritation that Sam shot him a sharp, enquiring look. "Either stop doing that or tell me what's so interesting, because that is frigging annoying."

Sam blinked at his brother and did a mental backtrack, figuring out it was the _huh_ that had pressed Dean's buttons.

"No, it's- just that sign back there for Boothill Graveyard, that place gets mentioned a lot in the guidebook. It's good to know where it is because we may be visiting at some point."

"Okay then."

Dean knew his short temper was in correlation to the number of hours they had been on the road. He loved his car, loved driving his car, loved cruising the open highways, but it had its limits and they'd been travelling for most of the day. His legs twitched in a demand for more space, his knees ached to be stretched, his body pinched and complained about the extended confinement. He pressed his foot a little heavier on the accelerator and turned his mind to the job they were heading to.

A newspaper article he'd found a few days ago reported on numerous mishaps at a local construction site which had employees threatening to walk off the job. No-one had been killed but there had been a number of injuries and even in this town where the folk embraced their ghosts, people were reluctant to credit the accidents as the work of the supernatural, blaming instead the construction manager for maintaining an unsafe workplace.

But just from what was written in the article, Dean could tell there was a restless spirit at work. How else could you explain such oddities as a worker being stuck overnight with his foot encased in cement, another worker being trapped in a cupboard for two hours, an errant nail gun pinning a guy to a wall, a roof panel falling on a guy working underneath… the list of unfortunate incidents went on. One or two such occurrences could be explained away as pranks or bad management, but to have nearly a dozen clearly indicated something else was in play.

It was a by the numbers job - identify the spirit, salt and burn - it was the reason he had chosen it. He just wanted something simple, something they could close their eyes and do. Put demons behind them for a while, ignore what may or may not be going on with Sam and the pull of the darkside, keep a low profile against the tenacious Henricksen who was probably tearing the country apart after their recent escape from Fulsom Prison, distract himself from the lingering guilt about Dad's death.

Nearing the centre of town a flashing neon sign for the Larian Motel caught Dean's eye. When it was followed up with the promise of 'large clean rooms' he thought _sounds good to me,_ although he couldn't help but frown at the motel's logo of an oversized stetson with an arrow run through the middle. What exactly were the owners trying to convey with _that_? It was a little disconcerting.

Dean eased the car into the parking lot without feeling the need to obtain Sam's approval to the choice of accommodation. As the vehicle came to a halt Sam's eyes snapped up from the book and surveyed the U shaped establishment with cursory interest before returning to the page.

"Jesus Sam, how interesting can a guide book be?" Dean commented as he slid out of the car.

"Pretty interesting,"

With a hand on the door, ready to close, Dean paused and asked, "Anything I should know about?"

_Yeah, all of it_ Sam wanted to say, of the belief that people should know the history of their country. He knew what his brother was asking, if there was anything in the guide book that might relate to the job they were here to investigate, and he considered whether he wanted to deliberately misinterpret the question to score a point.

"No," was the short answer, and the driver door slammed as Dean went to secure a room.

A short time later Sam jumped when there was a knock on the window against which he was leaning. Dean must have rounded the back of the car, out of sight, and Sam wondered whether he had done that deliberately to startle him.

"Come on, we have a room."

Sam climbed out of the car and moved to the open trunk to pick up his duffel.

"We're in Johnny Ringo," Dean stated as he closed the lid, his disdain at the rooms being named rather than numbered obvious in the tone of his voice and the roll of his eyes.

Dean led the way and Sam noted that every room was named after a historical figure, Wyatt Earp, Doc Holiday, all the local legends. Although having read about Johnny Ringo in the guide book, the young man was surprised that a ruthless, murderous cowboy would be considered suitable to immortalize in a room name. He silently joked to himself that the manager had taken one look at Dean and thought _Johnny Ringo Room_.

The older brother opened the door to a cosy, pleasant space. Dean was a little unhappy about the lack of flamboyance. Having experienced an inordinate number of motel rooms in his life he had developed a fondness for the eccentric and this room was very conservatively furnished with white walls and neutral décor. But he was impressed by the cleanliness, bonus points there, and on the whole he considered they would be comfortable here for the next few days.

The boys dropped their bags and were in quick agreement on taking a walk to check out the surroundings.

As they stepped out of the parking lot onto the sidewalk, Sam slowed to gaze upon an impressive original building to the right, large lettering on the façade identifying it as Scheifflin Hall. He nodded to himself and recognized the landmark from his reading, built as a luxury theatre in the 1880s as an homage to Ed Scheifflin, the founder of the town. Applied learning was Sam's forte, something he enjoyed, reading about something then understanding it in context. He would have loved to share his knowledge with Dean, regale him with facts and myths about the building, the town, its founder, but he knew his brother would be an unenthusiastic listener, would be derisive about such 'useless' information and he felt a slight resentment at Dean's lack of indulgence in intellectual matters, his unwillingness to humor Sam's interests, which meant he had to keep his mouth shut about such things.

The brothers were heading toward the center of town, for no other reason than that it was only a few streets away and they didn't know where the site they wanted to investigate was located. If they could get a feel for the town, endear themselves to a conversational local, get a parochial perspective on what people thought might be happening at the site, that would be a worthwhile start to the groundwork.

As they crossed the road and made their way into the main thoroughfare, both men stopped short. All of a sudden the town became a historical throwback. Where there should be paved road was dirt. Concrete and brick gave way to timber, stucco or earthen buildings in the style of the 1880s, all straight lines and sharp angles, practical and functional with scant regard for flourish and design. The footpath was bisected by posts propping up heavy awnings with long reaches, shading boldly painted frontages in monochromatic colors.

Sam cast a sidelong glance at Dean, trying to gauge his reaction to the old fashioned appearance of the street.

Dean's brow furrowed as his eyes flicked over the streetscape, an entire block of period architecture. His gaze lingered on old fashioned detailing, garish signage and Sam got the feeling that Dean found no charm in a town that was clinging to its past. Whatever Dean's thoughts on the subject, he didn't pass comment, just gave Sam a quick eyebrow raise which seemed to suggest _this is unusual_ and continued strolling into the main avenue.

On their right they passed the Tombstone Epitaph, a newspaper that had been in operation for more than a century, old enough to have reported on the gunfight at the OK Corral. Sam slowed at the store front to peer into the window and admire the displayed vintage equipment, but he only managed a brief glimpse before having to take some hurried steps to catch up with Dean, who didn't break stride.

As they wandered along the dusty pathway, the brothers heard a gentle ching, ching noise behind them. The uncommonness of the sound made them both slow and seek out the source. They turned and found a man walking towards them, looking like he had stepped straight out of the Wyatt Earp era. From the decorative spurs on his well worn boots, to his waistcoat and bootlace tie, topped off with a black felt Stetson, he was dressed for a different century.

As the man passed the brothers he touched his hat.

"Howdy."

Sam smiled politely and returned the greeting with a slight nod of his head.

Dean eyed the man with suspicious uncertainty, not sure if he was touched in the head or an intentional actor in the historical context. Or maybe just someone taking the ye olde style of the town a little too seriously. He slid his gaze to Sam and cocked an eyebrow, silently asking _is he for real?_ to which Sam responded with an amused shrug.

Dean wasn't the sort to indulge in dress up and pretend. He was a little disturbed by the town's presentation. There was something desperate and contrived about a place anchored to a popular period long since passed, trading on its history and refusing to progress. And it felt disconcertingly educational, like he was on a school field trip and maybe should be taking notes. To geeks and nerds that might be appealing (and hello, there was one standing next to him), but to Dean it was unsettling.

But despite the qualms, he couldn't deny that the town was engaging. The attention to detail was remarkable. Everywhere he turned it _was _the wild west and it was easy to get lost in the atmosphere. He couldn't help but imagine himself in another time, another incarnation, a cowboy that was a mix of John Wayne and Dirty Harry, a couple of six shooters on his hip hidden under a long black coat, living hard on a combination of whiskey, women and guns, calling men out just to prove he was quicker on the draw, fast and loose with the law. With a dangerous attitude, a pretty face and an itchy trigger finger he would have been notorious.

He chuckled to himself at the thought of it.

"What's so funny?"

"Just this town," Dean replied, shaking off the reverie. "It's a little deluded, a little out of touch."

"I don't know," Sam countered, unwilling to admit that he liked the step back in time, but also unwilling to allow Dean to write the town off. "It's pretty authentic. You could almost imagine you _were _in the Wild West. It's kinda quaint."

"Quaint? Really?" there was no mistaking the mock in the tone. "Because quaint _is_ what I look for in a town." Dean cocked an eyebrow. "Shall we find the quilt store grandma?"

Sam rolled his eyes and kept moving.

At the cross of roads Sam looked left and right, surprised at his jittery expectation, his eagerness to see what else the town had to offer. He was walking in the footsteps of Wyatt Earp, recognizing landmarks, feeling the history of the place. To his left was the The Bird Cage Theater, in its heyday a bar come theatre come gambling hall come brothel. It had a violent history, twenty six people had died in the eight years it operated, there were bullet holes in the bar, stab marks in one of the hung portraits and it was supposedly rife with ghosts. As a matter of professional interest Sam itched to visit the place, whether it was relevant to the job they were here for or not.

But what Sam _really_ wanted to see, what he was trying unobtrusively to locate by pushing himself up slightly on the balls of his feet, was the scene of the most famous historical gunfight, the OK Corral. And he knew that was lame. So _touristy_. It was a rare occasion that he actually _felt_ like a geek, despite the frequency with which Dean tossed the monicker his way, but he was fairly certain that getting excited about visiting the site of a thirty second gunfight which occurred over a hundred years ago landed him squarely in the category. If Dean only knew how _much_ he wanted to see it there would be no end to the teasing.

The Corral was on the street somewhere. His eyes flicked over the signage up and down the road and he could barely contain his glee when they alighted on the prize. But then he was in a quandary about how to get Dean to walk past it without being obvious and revealing his enthusiasm.

"What are you looking at?" Dean queried, trying to follow his brother's line of sight.

"Nothing," the young hunter answered, a little too quickly, and jerked his gaze away for the Corral. "I was just seeing if there was a construction site on this street."

_Be cool_ Sam counseled himself, _you're not a kid, so just be cool._ With that silent mantra he stowed his schoolish eagerness and adopted a nonchalant façade. There was plenty of time to visit the OK Corral, he didn't have to see it in the first five minutes. And it would be much better if he could visit without Dean by his side injecting acerbic, sarcastic comments, taking the edge off the pleasure.

Dean did a visual scan left and right then shrugged. "A construction site shouldn't be too hard to find in this town, it'll stick out like a sore thumb."

"Maybe we should ask around." Sam nudged his brother and nodded toward Big Nose Kate's Saloon across the road. "Shall we start there?"

Dean snorted at the name. "Tell me there wasn't actually a woman called Big Nose Kate."

"Yeah there was, she was Doc Holliday's girlfriend."

Dean shook his head. "I'll bet she was a real looker."

"Smart woman apparently. Broke Doc Holliday out of jail. He called her his intellectual equal."

"She had to be smart to make up for being ugly as sin." The older hunter cast a sidelong glance at his brother and flashed a knowing smirk. "You're really loving this history stuff aren't you geekmeister?"

Sam gave an awkward smile, not sure if he should admit to that or not, decided it was not in his interests to answer either way so ducked his head and strode across the road toward the bar's entrance. Dean followed with a grin.

Upon entering Sam was surprised at the size of the place, it looked deceptively small from the outside, squeezed between storefronts, but it opened into a large heavily wooded hall, the walls covered in photographs and historical paraphernalia.

Dean's eyes lit up at the sight of female staff elaborately clothed in low cut satin gowns, tight in the bodice and flowing at the waist, in the style of the wild west. The women's breasts were pushed precariously high, almost spilling out of their outfits.

"Oh I'm going to like it here," he murmured, then shouldered the younger man, "You get us a table, I'll make some _discreet_ enquiries at the bar."

The way Dean said it immediately had Sam on the alert. The fact that he added the word _discreet_ was an indication that he was going to be anything but.

"Don't make a scene," Sam warned.

Dean held his hands out to the side in mock indignation. _Who me?_ But the twinkle in his eye belied the innocent gesture as he swaggered toward to the bar.

The saloon was well patronized. Even though it wasn't quite dusk there was a decent crowd lounging at the tables, creating a backdrop of muted white noise, the conversations echoing off the walls and mixing together indistinctly.

"I'm looking for ghosts."

Sam cringed. _That_ was distinct. Dean had made the pronouncement as if the barman might be hard of hearing. And Sam knew he had only himself to blame, he was the one who had suggested to his brother that no-one would bat an eye at being asked about ghosts, Dean was just testing the theory.

Refusing to look at his brother Sam scampered to a vacant table and threw himself into a chair. He hoped nobody had seen him enter with the loud mouth and was relieved that there was no abatement of the hubbub in the room, nobody seemed to be taking any notice of Dean. And really, that was the best way to deal with his brother.

Sam pretended to be engrossed in the drinks menu when a few minutes later Dean placed a glass in front of him. Sam frowned at the contents.

"What's this?"

"We're in the wild west Sam. This isn't beer town."

"What town is it?" There were a number of things the coloured liquid in the tumbler could be.

"It's whiskey town."

Sam screwed up his face in disgust.

"Just drink it. Be a man."

Sam twisted the glass between his fingers and regarded the beverage with distaste. "Did your yelling about ghosts produce a result?" he asked, distracting from his unwillingness to drink.

Dean smirked. "Did you like that? Pretty smooth, huh?"

"Oh yeah, real understated."

"I thought so," Dean proudly replied. "The bartender was busy, but he said he would send over some locals that know everything about the town."

"What did you say about us? Did you give him a cover?"

"Yeah," Dean leaned forward conspiratorily and Sam followed suit. "I told him that I was a millionaire playboy race car driver and you were my disapproving, stick up the ass butler. Try and work to that."

Sam sat back with a roll of the eyes and a small shake of the head. "No-one's buying you as millionaire playboy race car driver."

"Bet they'd buy you as a disapproving stick up the ass butler," Dean returned with a raise of his glass.

Sam snorted. "You're an idiot."

Dean cocked an eyebrow, dipped his head and seemed to take it as a compliment.

Voices being raised behind drew their attention. Standing at the bar only a few feet away were two middle aged women, Dean guessed them to be in their 50's, and their conversation was becoming increasingly voluble. Their foreign accents made them even more noticeable, British from the sounds, although the inflections were different, they didn't come from the same area.

The taller of the women had dark, shoulder length hair, dotted with streaks of grey and the other wore glasses, had dark blonde hair with grey peeking through at the roots and Dean wasn't sure if it was a trick of the light but there seemed to be flecks of pink as well, although it was hard to distinguish the details when the hair was tied in a haphazard ponytail. The women were similarly dressed, both in worn jeans and boots but the dark haired woman had a checked shirt on, to which the blonde was taking great exception. It appeared to be the source of the argument.

"Cat fight," Dean quietly enthused, fingers lightly slapping Sam's arm.

"How old are you?"

Dean looked at his brother quizzically, as if he couldn't understand who _wouldn't_ be drawn to a cat fight, then twisted in his chair and directed his attention toward the women like he was watching a floorshow.

"Jesus Christ Ada, would you get over the checked shirt?" the dark haired woman moaned.

The shorter of the two women, Ada, narrowed her eyes at her companion.

"I want to know where the bloody hell you found it, dingus. I swear I burned all those god awful shirts."

"You'd better not be burning my shirts," was the sharp retort.

"I mean for fucks sake Maud, do you even care about your appearance? Did you bother looking in the mirror before you came out? Put your jacket back on, before someone sees you."

"It's too warm in here."

"I cannot continue standing next to you while you're wearing that shirt. It makes you look like a lush and it reflects badly on me."

Maud drew up indignantly. "A lush? That's rich coming from a boozehound. And how does a shirt make someone look like a lush? That makes no sense. How can an item of clothing imply an overfondness of alcohol?"

"You don't like lush? Well how about knobhead then? Does that suit better?"

"Yeah wang wacker. Knobhead suits just fine."

"Wang wacker?"

Dean shot his brother a bemused expression and mouthed the words _wang wacker?_ He was enjoying the spectacle way too much for Sam's liking, who considered mature aged women acting in such a manner, throwing around such language, was appalling.

The women glared at each other in a tense standoff and Dean wondered whether they were about to witness their first gunfight in Tombstone. Between middle aged women. Over a checked shirt.

That would be weird.

But entertaining.

To his surprise the impasse was broken when the ladies burst out laughing.

"I thought we agreed you weren't going to say wang wacker any more. It is such a lame insult Maud," said Ada, her face crinkled in mirth.

"Yeah, I panicked," chuckled Maud. "What are you doing using my dingus? You know I have a limited range of insults."

"I say dingus too," the blonde haired woman protested.

"No, you say div."

"Are you telling me how to throw insults?"

"Well you're not doing it right."

"There is no right and wrong with insults, dickhead."

"Oh yeah? You want to settle it with pistols at dawn?"

Again both women dissolved into laughter, leaving Dean shaking his head in puzzlement, unable to plot the progress of the argument.

"Fucking pistols at dawn," Ada breathed through the laughter and playfully slapped her friend's shoulder. "You've got to come up with some new material."

The bartender leant over to the two women and said something quietly, eyes and hands making discreet motions in Dean and Sam's direction.

"Oh great," Dean groaned, his amusement immediately subsiding. "I think these are the locals we're waiting for."

**TBC**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

* * *

Ada and Maud picked up their glasses and walked over to the table at which the Winchester brothers were sitting.

"Hi," they cheerfully chorused.

"Chuck sent us over," the blonde woman announced with a nod toward the bar tender. "He said you boys are ghost hunting and want to hear some long winded stories about local legends."

It made Dean smile, casual talk of ghost hunting, like it was a common pastime, nothing out of the ordinary, no need to whisper, it was a _tourist attraction_. Almost made him feel like they belonged in this town.

But not quite.

There was a difference between ghost hunting for tourists and ghost hunting for real. Even here, they were still skirting the fringes.

"Pull up a chair girls," he amiably proposed, straightening his slouch as befitted the arrival of female company.

There was always an element of danger about interacting with strangers, it could be a fraught activity trying to probe for information whilst deflecting queries about themselves and their history. Usually Dean resorted to lies, which was risky, any check on his veracity could undo them, result in unpleasant complications. And their current heightened criminal status made the stakes even higher than usual. With their pictures no doubt being distributed through law enforcement agencies across the country after their recent prison break they had to keep a low profile, avoid local authorities, avoid any situation that might lead to the involvement of local authorities, because they would be instantly recognizable and thrown into chains faster than they could protest their innocence. With that in mind, Dean determined to tread lightly in this chat.

"Sorry to interrupt your evening. We won't keep you long," he apologised with a charming smile.

"Hey it's not an interruption, it's an enhancement," the blonde woman dismissed with a flick of her hand. "It's not often we get to share our knowledge with handsome young men."

She pulled a chair out from under the table and said, "I'm Ada, this is Maud," jerking her thumb at the dark haired woman beside who tipped her head in greeting.

"I thought it was lush and boozehound," Dean joked earning a horrified look from his brother that made him consider perhaps it was out of line.

Sam stood up fast, a blustering attempt to cover the inappropriate remark, knocked the table hard and pretended not to notice as he offered a handshake to the women. "I'm Sam, this is my brother Dean."

Dean lifted himself out of the chair, exchanged shakes then waited for the women to settle into the vacant seats before regaining his own.

"So you heard us talking before, did you?" Maud asked Dean, her face tinged with embarrassment.

It was Ada that answered, "Of course they heard, you div, did you think we were whispering? _They're_ not the ones hard of hearing."

"Bite me blindy," Maud retorted matter of factly, the barb casually thrown.

"Make me deafo," was the quick response, no offence taken.

Sam's brow knitted at the exchange and his gaze fled to the safety of his drink as he struggled with how to react. He hadn't had much interaction with women of this age (with women of any age come to that) and he wasn't sure if he should be laughing at their banter, ignoring it or trying to separate them.

"So you girls sisters?" Dean asked, and as soon as it was out of his mouth he thought _different accents moron_, but the impunity with which they insulted each other seemed to indicate some sort of family connection.

"No," they replied in unison and Maud inclined her head slightly at Ada to indicate that she should take the lead.

"We run the silent movie theatre together," Ada expounded, "every Friday and Saturday night. You should come along if you're still in town, it's a lot of fun, very dramatic piano music and damsels getting tied to railway tracks, it's great. I love all that old fashioned stuff. And it fits right into the style of the town." She paused for a moment, aware that she'd veered from the question, trying to remember what exactly the question was, before continuing regardless. "Maud and I have been running it for about ten years now?" the sentence ended as a question for Maud, a query of the time period and Maud answered with an affirming nod. "But we were friends long before then. We've been friends a _looong_ time."

"Too long," Maud added.

"Amen," Ada agreed.

"Did you grow up together in England?" Sam asked conversationally.

Maud lips thinned, she cast unimpressed eyes at the young man and stated, "Are you trying to insult me?"

It took a beat for Sam to realize she wasn't joking. "N-no," he stammered, eyes wide as he tried to figure out what he'd said wrong, gaze shifting to Dean for some sort of explanation.

"Friggin' Yanks," the dark haired woman muttered, eyes blazing with self righteous indignation.

"Who you calling a Yank?" Dean bristled.

"Settle down Maud," Ada counseled in a sharp tone.

"Cool it Dean," Sam chimed in

Both Maud and Dean reached for their drinks, kept their eyes averted and took a long sip to quell their outrage.

"Maud's Australian," Ada explained. "And she's a little touchy when people don't recognize it."

"No, I'm touchy when people assume I'm English," Maud corrected.

"I'm sorry," Sam apologized, a flush creeping into his cheeks at the unintentional faux pas.

Maud's expression softened, she looked abashed, "No, look, I'm sorry. After living in this country for thirty years that's a raw nerve, the assumption that I'm British. Like there couldn't be any alternative."

Dean chose this moment to inject a, "G'day mate," into the conversation, and Sam wasn't sure if it was a deliberate dig at the Aussie as payback for the yank comment, or if he was trying to be funny, but it could not have been more ill timed and the accent was atrocious, even Sam was offended by it.

Maud's forehead creased, her lips parted slightly, appalled at the butchering of her brogue and she reproached, "Yeah that helps."

"Would you get over yourself," Ada warned Maud, a slight lowering of the eyebrows signifying _enough_, "We're not here to talk about international relations. These boys are looking for a thrill. Ghosts and ghouls and boogiemen."

Maud huffed a laugh. "Boogiemen, huh? Do we have any of those in town?"

"Yeah, I think Chuck has a bit of a cold."

_Boom boom._

The women giggled, the tension at the table dissipated and Sam smiled, appreciative of Ada's effort to lighten the mood and steer the conversation past his blunder.

"We can give you a list of some of the town's most haunted buildings if you want. Or we can _take_ you to a few of the sites and regale you with the history." Ada addressed her comments to Dean and Sam got the feeling she was deliberately drawing him into the conversation, making sure he was over the momentary disharmony.

"We don't need a full tour or anything," Dean replied with a smile, not the sort to hold a grudge, and genuine in his desire not to inconvenience the women. "Just a point in the right direction would be fine."

"Would you boys stop worrying about putting us out. What else are we going to be doing? And it's not often that two young hunks need our services. We can offer you the full service if you like?" Ada elbowed Dean in the ribs and gave him a bawdy wink. "Hey? Nudge, nudge, wink,wink."

The look of horror on Dean's face as he caught her drift made Maud cackle with laughter. "I think he's going to throw up Ada."

Sam ducked his head to hide his own broad grin, Dean really did look sick at the implication.

"Just messing with you," Ada chuckled. "I'm not that kind of girl. Although twenty years ago… look out."

"Twenty years ago you still would have been too old for him Ada," Maud said.

Ada gave her a withering look. "Jesus woman, how old do you think I am?"

"I know how old you are, I don't have dementia."

Sam was getting used to the bickering, wasn't finding it quite so confronting , but he was still keen to cut it short and piped up, "We actually heard about a place we wanted to visit, a.. construction site?" he looked at Dean inquiringly, like he was trying to remember the details, playing the innocent and Dean joined in the ruse by nodding his head to confirm. "We heard there were some strange things going on there and thought we might go and have a look."

"Who told you that?" Ada asked with just enough suspicion that Sam wondered if the events at the construction site were supposed to be a town secret. But then, it had been reported in the paper, albeit without the supernatural detail.

"The guy at the reception of our hotel," Sam replied vaguely.

"Which hotel?"

"Er…" Sam shook his head slowly as if he couldn't recall the name, raised his eyebrows to Dean who shrugged, acting dumb. The less detail they gave out, the less opportunity to get caught in a lie. "I don't remember the name of it, we only got in a few hours ago. It's a couple of streets away."

"Huh," Ada grunted and the conversation came to an abrupt silence when she didn't add anything.

"You know the place he's talking about?" Dean prompted.

Ada's lips thinned and she darted an uncertain glance at her friend. "I think I know the place you mean. It's not one of the high spots of the town, we can certainly recommend much more interesting places."

"We'd _really_ like to visit that place first," Dean insisted, and so as not to appear too oddly focused added quickly, "but we're open to suggestions about what to see after that."

Maud joined in, "Look, the construction site is quite dangerous. A lot of guys have been hurt there in the last few weeks. We just wouldn't recommend you going."

Ada nodded her head in agreement and Dean decided to change tack. If the women were reluctant about revealing _where _the site was maybe they would be looser about revealing what they knew of the onsite accidents. He knew he could work his way around to _where _again later in the conversation.

"So what have you heard about the place? What's going on over there?" he innocently asked.

Ada shook her head at the thought of the unpleasant events. "A lot of unfortunate mishaps. Guys trying to go about their work and getting donged on the head for their trouble. I've never heard of anything like it."

"And people are blaming ghosts?" he probed.

Ada looked uncomfortable. "Well…that's what _some_ people are saying, yeah."

"But you think it's something else?" Dean read between the lines.

The woman flicked an uncertain glance at her friend then dropped her eyes to her drink and started twisting the glass distractedly before continuing, "No actually." She sighed quietly, an indication that it was a forced revelation, an admission she would rather not have made. "We know the guy who manages the construction company and he's not a reckless operator, he wouldn't run a slipshod operation. The stuff going on at the site has nothing to do with how he's operating the business, it's something else."

"Ghosts?"

Ada raised her shoulders in a slight shrug. "Maybe," was all she was willing to concede.

Dean and Sam exchanged a surprised look. It was rare in their experience for people to come to the conclusion of ghosts, usually there was some half assed attempt at scientific justification or just a general dismissal of events as unfortunate accidents. Maybe it was because this town was so steeped in ghostly legend that the locals were willing to consider supernatural explanations for unusual happenings. Whatever the reason, it was going to make the brothers' job a lot easier if they could openly discuss the possibility of spirits.

"Ghosts. What did I tell you Sammy?" he gave his brother a slap on the arm. "We love all that horror movie stuff. We definitely have to check it out. Is it nearby?"

Ada frowned. She could see she was on a losing argument, the boys were determined to visit the plagued construction site despite their advice to the contrary. "Yeah, we can show you where it is."

"Ada," Maud hissed, her drawn expression and slight shake of the head conveying _I don't think it's a good idea._ The women locked eyes and engaged in a silent conversation, brows fluttering up and down, slight changes in expression providing hints to the back and forth as they tried to reach agreement on how to proceed.

Finally Ada raised a hand to her friend, a gesture that the debate was at an end, that Maud should trust her judgment and returned her attention to the brothers. "We can show you where it is, but we're not taking you onsite, we'll just be looking from the outside. Okay?"

"Okay," both men agreed. That suited them better anyway, once they knew where the place was they could come back under cover of darkness and take a thorough tour in secret.

"Let's go then," Dean enthusiastically declared, aware that he was pressing the women a little too hard, but concerned that delay might lead to a change of heart.

Ada blinked in surprise. "Alright."

As the four of them stepped out into the street, the women turned left and led the way.

"It's just up the road," Ada threw at the boys over her shoulder.

It was obvious that the women were troubled, the insults and banter had gone, replaced by somberness and low toned discussions too quiet for the men to hear.

Sam began to feel guilty at taking advantage of the ladies, asking them to do something they obviously were uncomfortable with. They were _using_ these kindly women and it just didn't sit right with him.

"Maybe we should do this later," Sam muttered to his brother. "Let's get directions and we can check out the place by ourselves tonight."

"It's just up the road Sam," Dean protested.

To their left they passed the OK Corral and Sam tried to keep his eyes on the path, didn't want to give any indication that the attraction held an interest for him, didn't want to spoil himself for a later visit by seeing too much in passing, but a large flyer pasted to the wall caught his eye and without even realizing, he slowed to read it. It detailed a daily re-enactment of the famous gunfight and he immediately vowed to himself that he was going to catch that before they left town. That was knocking history up a notch, seeing events acted out in costume, precisely choreographed to replicate _exactly_ the original incident. And definitely something to do without Dean. He'd probably take issue with the way they were holding the guns or something.

"You been to the OK Corral yet?" Maud asked, noting the young man had almost stopped in front of it. "It's pretty good. Well worth a visit."

"Really?" Sam returned dismissively, as if only mildly interested in the idea. "I don't know if that's our kind of thing."

He threw a quick sidelong look at his brother from under his fringe. There was a knowing half smile on Dean's face, an eyebrow raised a few degrees as their eyes met, like he could see right through Sam, like he knew his brother was playing it cool. It was an unfortunate side effect of being in each other's constant company that Sam couldn't rely on his poker face to hide what he was thinking from Dean, his brother knew him too well for it to be effective.

"Oh you've got to go," Ada agreed. "You can't come to Tombstone and not go to the OK Corral. That's like going to Paris and not seeing the Eiffel Tower."

Sam shrugged mildly, hoping it would prompt a change in topic but the ladies weren't willing to let it rest yet.

"You don't have any interest in seeing how the west was won?" Ada perservered. "You don't want to see how scores were settled in the good old days? I thought every kid loved cowboys. Shoot 'em ups and fastest draws and all that stuff. John Wayne and Clint Eastwood? What's not to love?"

Dean was startled by the comment, she had mentioned the two people that he could see himself modelled on in the wild west and it unsettled him, he hated to think of himself as predictable. He changed the subject by revealing, "Sam wanted to be the Road Runner when he was a kid. He talked in meeps for years."

"I did not," Sam protested with a laugh.

"Don't be ashamed Sam. I'm sure there are a lot of boys who aspire to be a gay looking bird."

"Shut up." He gave Dean a playful shove on the shoulder. "These women don't know you well enough to understand your stupid sense of humour."

Ada chuckled. "Return the serve Sam. Go on, you give him some back. Like I could tell you that Maud here once got very drunk and tongue kissed a statue of a native American."

"Ada!" Maud barked and crimson swept through her complexion as the group burst into laughter. "She's kidding," the dark haired woman said unconvincingly and cast her eyes to the ground to hide her embarrassment.

"Play the game Maud. Return the serve."

"You want me to tell the boys something mortifying about you?"

"I'm not ashamed of anything," Ada pronounced but then something occurred to her, she knitted her brows and she mumbled, "Oh wait."

"Yeah," Maud crowed, "you _should_ be afraid."

It was like an act, a comedy routine, the way the women played off each other, fed each other lines, wound each other up. Sam was starting to _get _it, starting to understand their humor and the way they related, that they were entirely desensitized to each other, that nothing one said could offend the other. It made him feel more relaxed knowing their banter wasn't going to end in tears, he started to enjoy the jocularity.

"Okay, I've got one," Sam said with a sly look at his brother.

"Spill it," Ada prompted.

"Sam," Dean growled and the word was a clear warning, held a threat of violence.

But Sam ignored his brother and with a dimpled smile blurted, "Dean used to practice an English accent because he wanted to be James Bond."

The women cackled at the disclosure.

Dean wasn't thrilled at the revelation, but appreciated that it could have been worse. In fact he felt a grudging gratitude to Sam for the restraint because he could have revealed _way_ worse than that. But he wasn't about to give his brother any credit, he was still unhappy about the revelation no matter how mild it was.

"Do it," Ada urged. "Come on. Let's hear it."

"No way," Dean answered flatly, not even a hint that he could be coerced.

They were nearing the end of the road and the women stopped before a wired fence surrounding an old building.

"This is it," Ada pronounced, her mirth dropping away.

The brothers surveyed the site with keen investigative eyes. Building rubble was scattered before a two storey original timber structure, probably built in the town's 1880s heyday. The edifice was showing signs of its age, faded paint peeled and bubbled in places while temporary buttresses supported parts of the exterior, waiting for a more permanent solution.

"It's a renovation," Dean murmured, a personal observation more than a general comment. To the group he added, "From the newspaper article I got the impression it was a new building."

"No, there are strict regulations about buildings in the town centre," Ada said. "Nothing can be demolished and the facades have to remain original. The town has to look as it did a century ago or as near to as possible."

"So you can change the inside of a building, but not the outside," Sam followed.

"That's right. And even changing the inside is frowned upon, you need to come up with a pretty convincing argument to alter the layout of an original building."

"So is this building being altered internally?"

"Yeah. They're turning it into a wax museum, making life size models of all the local legends so they've had to change the layout inside. Fantastic idea, but not sure this is the right place for it," Ada concluded.

"What makes you say that?" Dean queried.

"This building gives me the creeps. It used to be the old funeral parlour. It's a bit macabre turning such a morbid building into a tourist attraction." She shivered involuntarily.

Dean and Sam exchanged knowing glances. A funeral parlour, that explained a few things, spirits _would_ get upset about their last resting place before burial being defiled.

As they stood looking at the construction site, a man of about forty five, dressed casually in checked shirt and jeans, exited the building wearing a deep frown, his attention focused on a technical drawing spread between his hands.

Ada called out to the man, "Hey Dave, how's it going." He looked up from his work to see who was addressing him. "How's Mike? Recovering ok I hope?"

The man threw Ada a weary but genuine smile and came over to where the group were standing.

"Mike's doing well thanks Ada." His gaze raked over the young men. "You girls on a date?"

Sam winced at the comment and Dean took offence, saw an inference that they were conmen or gigolos, and his fists balled at his side.

"In our dreams Dave," Maud returned with a chuckle. "No they're a couple of ghost hunters looking for a thrill. Sam, Dean this is Dave Guber, the manager of the site."

The fence prevented the men from shaking hands so they nodded to each other at the introduction. Dean's brow furrowed and his lip quirked at the corner as he repeated, "Goober?" like he hadn't heard correctly, thinking _yeah buddy, suits you perfectly_.

"It's German," the manager retorted snappishly. "Don't go there. The joke's worn thin."

Maud coughed self consciously, drew the manager's attention and nodded toward the site. "The boys heard about your place and wanted to come and check it out. Mind if they take a brief nosey round?"

Everyone was startled by the request. It had been agreed that they _weren't_ going to go on site. But Dean wasn't going to say no to an opportunity to get the layout of the place, ask some questions about where the accidents occurred.

Ada rounded on her friend in amazement, eyebrows almost into her hairline.

"What?" Maud asked defensively, aware the request was inconsistent with her previous stance. "Nothing's going to happen if Dave's with them."

Dave looked dubiously at the group, "I don't know Maud. We've got enough legal issues without inviting strangers onto the site."

"We're not here to make things difficult for you," Sam offered. "We just thought it would be cool to check out a site where there are reported to be ghosts. Active ghosts from the sounds."

"Who told you that?" the manager challenged, upset that rumours were being spread. "Who said anything about ghosts?"

"Uh…" Sam cast a furtive glance toward the girls, knowing he was incriminating them but figuring that was a more convincing explanation than going down the bogus hotel receptionist route again.

"What have you girls been saying?" Dave flared.

"Easy Dave," Ada placated. "It's no real secret what's been going on at the site."

"Well you don't need to discuss it with strangers," he replied. "I'm up to my eyeballs in trouble, Ada, I don't need the field widened."

"They're nice boys Dave," Maud vouched. "They're not here to cause trouble. What's it going to hurt to have them look around?"

Dave looked impatiently at his watch then back at the group. Sam got the feeling that if they hadn't been with the two middle aged women they would have been summarily dismissed. And really, it didn't matter to the brothers if they got onsite now or not, either way they would be returning later. But their mature companions obviously enjoyed a good relationship with the manager because surprisingly he nodded his head, albeit with thin lips, and reluctantly agreed, "Okay, just five minutes, I've got things to do." He added in a sharp voice, addressing the women, "But this is not a stop off on some town ghost tour girls, I won't be allowing this again." Turning to the boys he pronounced, "And if anyone asks, you boys are architecture nuts."

Dean snorted at that, and Sam nodded agreeably.

Maud sidled closer to the brothers and asked in a low voice, "You sure you want to do this?"

"Sure," Dean replied without hesitation, and opened the gate in the protective fence to let himself through. He held it open as his brother followed and when the two women baulked he said, "You ladies don't have to come. We really appreciate you bringing us here and introducing us to Dave, you don't have to go any further."

The women looked at each other uncertainly and Maud remarked, "I will if you will."

Ada gave a wan smile. She found the place unsettling. After what had occurred on the site, both historically and during the renovation, she had the urge not to get involved, remain at a sensible distance, but her curiosity to see how the renovations were coming got the better of her and she nodded, ducking through the fence with Maud close behind.

Dean kept pace with Dave, keen to probe him for information, while Sam matched steps with the women, ready to lend a helping hand as they wandered over uneven and rubbish strewn surfaces.

"So what do you think Dave? Have you really got ghosts?" Dean leaned on the word _ghosts_ like he was a bit of a skeptic.

Dave pushed an uncertain hand through his hair, paused before answering. "I've never been a big believer in ghosts…" he huffed a nervous laugh, "I mean it's ridiculous, right? Ghosts? The town puts on a bit of a show for the tourists but I'd never _seen_ anything that led me to believe that sort of thing really existed." He shook his head slowly, "But the stuff going on here… let's just say it pushes the bounds of normal."

"You don't think it could be anything else? Someone trying to give you a hard time? Like a rival or something?" Dean persisted and he felt strange in the role of doubter but wanted to eliminate the possibility that the goings on could be a hoax.

"Pretty elaborate if it is. And to what end?" the manager responded. "There is nothing to be gained from sabotaging the job. The building was so dilapidated before we started that we pretty much had to work from the ground up, nobody else wanted to take it on. We're restoring the place to its former glory, making it an added attraction for the town but there's no money in it, this was always a labour of love, I was never going to make my fortune from it. Now-" he sighed heavily, "well I think it may just ruin me."

Sam had been trailing close enough behind to hear what Dave had said and drew the conclusion that he was an honest, decent guy. He obviously cared about Tombstone, was community minded, and Sam hoped there was something they could do to stop the run of bad luck he was experiencing. He didn't deserve to be ruined by angry spirits.

It was a common occurrence, spirits taking exception to a building being demolished or redeveloped. It was a standard issue pain in the butt and if the brothers could figure out which spirit was making life difficult then they could do something about it, salt and burn the bones and give this poor man some peace.

The group had been walking slowly through the building, inspecting rooms in various states of repair. Every room they went into Dean asked the question _anything weird happen in here?_ If Dave answered no then he only gave the space a cursory once over, but if the answer was yes, Dean's eyes did a slow, thorough examination of the room looking for tell-tale signs. He wished he had his EMF meter on him, so that he could find out for certain if there were spirits onsite.

They wandered toward the rear of the building and into a large room where for the first time, Dave's face lit up with pleasure.

"This is my favourite room," the manager professed. "We've had a lot of heartache in this room but-" his gaze traveled to the ceiling and his companions did similarly, "that chandelier was installed today and it looks spectacular. It cost an arm and a leg but it was worth it."

The fixture he was so enamoured with was made of gilded metal, dropping in four circular tiers, the topmost layer about fiften feet in diameter, the lower layers progressively smaller, giving the appearance of an upside down birthday cake. Hanging from each round strut were scores of cut glass teardrops, hundreds of them in total, so closely gathered that the whole fitting wavered and hazed as the crystals turned in the light current of air.

"Yeah, its nice," Dean agreed blithely, not much into to ornate lighting. It was kind of gaudy in his opinion although he noticed that Sam looked enraptured, like he was really appreciating it and it made him roll his eyes, form the opinion that you had to be a nerd to admire it.

"Let me turn it on," Dave said, already moving back toward the room's entrance. "You won't believe the way the light hits the glass."

He flicked the light switch then stood staring upward with a smile on his face.

"Wow," Sam breathed. It wasn't just the design and intricate workmanship of the chandelier that was impressive, but the way it caused little rainbows of light to play on the walls.

"So this chandelier isn't original?" Dean asked and from his thoughtful expression Sam could tell that it wasn't a random query.

Sam gave his brother an enquiring look and shuffled toward him to initiate a low conversation about what his angle was, when a cry of fright from Ada stopped him short. Turning to the woman he saw her horrifed gaze was transfixed at the ceiling and looking up Sam saw the chandelier rocking back and forth, more than could be accounted for by a sudden gust of wind, crystals jerking and jangling unhappily, letting out a tinkling grumble.

Without thinking Sam reacted, foreseeing what was to follow.

The chandelier was suddenly plummeting downward, released of its grip on the plaster and Sam knew with dreadful certainty that he had to knock the women out of the way or they were going to be crushed.


	3. Chapter 3

Uh-oh, Dean gets hurt in this chapter. (Secret smile) Yeah, I like a bit of hurt Dean. Ali doesn't (freak).

Just because I prefer humor to angst does not make me a freak, so belt up.

Yeah, whatever.

Don't make me slap you.

**

* * *

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Chapter 3

With no time for thought Sam yelled, "Look out," and lunged at the two women.

Dean obviously had a similar idea because the brothers knocked shoulders as they twisted in the same direction and the contact steered the men toward different targets, Dean toward Maud and Sam toward Ada.

The women were standing near each other, no more than a few feet away, and Sam grabbed desperately for the blonde woman, arms outstretched, fingers flexing for a hold, but as he moved toward her, she seemed to get further away. It was a confusing split second. Ada wasn't physically moving, she was frozen in fear, eyes still fixed upward, but Sam wasn't gaining ground, it was like an optical illusion, a trick on the senses, and he didn't have a chance to figure out what was going on before a solid mass slammed into his back and pushed him violently to the ground.

Everything became a blur for a long moment, deafening noise, whirling color, images and sound stuttering around Sam in gaudy disarray and he was completely helpless while the scene played out. He flung his arms in front to break his fall, but the insistent weight pressing from behind didn't allow for much opposition and his head hit the floorboards with a thump that rattled his teeth, made his eyes close tightly in a wince.

Then all was peaceful. The room was entirely still, in an aftermath of stunned silence.

Sam opened his eyes and was immediately aware of a throb in his left cheek which traced a path down to his jaw and up to his forehead. He flicked his tongue over his teeth, then worked his jaw left and right testing for damage, pleased that everything appeared to be in the right place.

Dave Guber was in his line of sight, hunched against the wall in shock, eyes wide with horror as he surveyed the scene. Their gazes met and it seemed to jar the manager into action, he pushed himself off the wall and moved toward the disaster area with a critical look in his eye, analysing the situation and determining what needed to be done.

Sam gingerly lifted his head off the ground, brought his hands underneath his chest to gain some elevation, and, to the tinkle of glass sliding off his back, discovered that he was trapped from the waist down. Although not crushingly so. He glanced over the fallen fixture and found that the tiers had concertinad, the centre of the light had borne the brunt of the fall, was completely mangled, but had created a buffer for the higher, wider tiers, causing them to come to rest slightly off the ground, which meant he had metal laying over him rather than squashing him.

Then his eyes came to rest on Dean, buried under the fallen fixture. His shorter stride and difference in height put him a few steps behind, and metal covered him up to his shoulders, only his head was clear of the wreckage.

He was unnaturally still.

Sam couldn't see his face, his head was twisted away, but the stillness was enough to know that Dean was unconscious.

"Dean? Dean!"

Any hope that Dean was just dazed, that he would respond to his name, was dashed by the complete lack of return, not even a groan in answer. He was soundly knocked out and the prospect of what that might mean, just how badly hurt Dean might be, made Sam's stomach dive. He felt an urgent need to be out from under the metal, to examine Dean, gauge the damage and be assured that everything would be fine.

He flattened his palms against the ground, locked his elbows and tried to lever himself free, pulling with all his might against the obstacle trapping him. He managed to move about an inch then frustratingly could go no further, firmly wedged.

Dave was bobbing around, looking at the tangled mess from all angles, trying to figure out how to lift it and small shakes of the head indicated it was not going to be an easy job.

"Are you okay chicken?" Ada called.

Sam turned toward the voice with a slight frown on his face at the unusual endearment and saw the women were huddled together, Ada with an arm around Maud's shoulders, the dark haired woman running silent tears down her cheeks. They were nowhere near where they had been standing before the chandelier fell and it made Sam feel a little dizzy, like there was something wrong with his eyesight, because they shouldn't be that far away, they shouldn't be to his right, and he had to shift his gaze to the floor a few inches in front to regain his equilibrium.

"Yeah," he answered, adding, "But I think Dean's hurt. Can you check on him?"

There was a quiet conversation between Ada and Maud then the blonde woman unwrapped her arm from her friend and crawled past Sam to where Dean lay.

As she drew beside the injured man she whispered sorrowfully, "Oh Dean," and instinctively reached out and comfortingly stroked his hair. Her sympathy gave Sam no reassurance.

"Is he conscious?" Sam asked hopefully.

"No."

"Can you tell how badly hurt he is?"

She paused for a moment, surveying the elder Winchester then responded, "He has a nasty cut on his head but I really can't see what's going on under all the metal."

Frustration was rising in Sam as he continued his fruitless attempts to shimmy out from under the chandelier carcass. He couldn't overcome the impediment, was going to have to wait for assistance and the helplessness stoked an impotent rage within him, he _needed_ to be out, he _needed_ to attend to Dean, being so close and not really knowing if his brother was okay, not being able to do anything to help, was torture.

Dave crouched beside him, elbows on his knees, and said, "I can't see any easy way to shift this thing, how about I'll try and lift and we'll see how far that gets us."

Sam nodded impatiently and clipped, "Yep, do it."

"Ada," the manager beckoned to the nearby woman with a flick of his head, "maybe you should come and grab a hold of Sam and help pull him out."

The blonde woman scurried to Sam's side, hunched down in front of him and took a hold of his arms just above the elbows then nodded her readiness to Dave, waiting for the word to pull.

The manager planted his feet close to Sam's body, grasped a firm weightlifters hold on the metal pinning the young man and on the count of 3-2-1, pulled upward.

The strain was immediate and Dave gasped, "Jesus Christ this is heavy."

But the few inches he gained were enough for Ada to drag Sam out, slide him over the wooden floorboards, until his legs were free of the encumbrance.

"He's out Dave," Ada reported and the manager dropped the weight with a groan, then pumped his arms back and forward trying to ease the ache.

As Sam got his feet underneath him he could feel twinges and kinks in his back and legs that were going to become bruises. But he didn't dwell on them, wasn't interested in taking stock, he was preoccupied with his brother's health and scooted around to where he lay.

Dean's eyes remained closed, blood trickled down the side of his head from a gash above his left ear but a quick glance down his body proved Ada right, it was impossible to see what sort of damage lay under the twisted metal.

"Dean?" Sam quietly called as he placed his fingers on the pulse point at his brother's neck. "Wake up dude."

A moan escaped Dean as awareness unpleasantly dawned. His features went through a series of grimaces as he took stock of himself, tried to move, tried to figure out what was going on, without opening his eyes.

"Are you sitting on me?" he slurred, and it was a serious question, a gauge of his confusion.

Sam huffed an amused breath as relief washed through him. Dean conscious and somewhat coherent was something he could handle, he'd been _there_ before.

"It's the chandelier, it fell on you."

"Huh."

Sam heard the uncertainty in the grunt, knew Dean was trying to catch up. The injured man's eyelids fluttered and opened half mast, but he made no attempt to focus, his line of sight was off somewhere to the right of Sam's legs.

"Heavy chandelier," he remarked.

"No shit," Sam responded wryly. "Anything broken?"

There was a pause before Dean slowly replied, "I can't really tell."

"What do you want to do here?" Dave interrupted. "Lift and pull or call the fire brigade?"

"Lift and pull," Dean declared, without even knowing what it entailed, but preferring it to the fire brigade. Sam nodded his agreement.

Getting Dean out from under the chandelier was going to be harder than getting Sam out had been, he was awkward to reach with the fixture almost entirely covering him, and it had to be done with a delicate hand when the full extent of his injuries weren't known.

As Sam and Dave discussed the best place to stand to gain the most leverage, Ada, who had returned to Maud's side, piped up, "We'll help get him out," and the women quickly moved beside the men, much to Sam's gratitude, because it meant he and Dave could lift while the women maneuvered Dean.

When the men had finished discussing the mechanics of the lift, moved apart to take up their positions, Sam leaned toward Ada and said in a low voice, "Be really gentle pulling him out," and she gave him an understanding nod, with a reassuring squeeze at his wrist.

Sam and Dave situated themselves on either side of Dean, with enough space in between for Ada and Maud to fit, and while they waited for the women to be ready the men flexed and re-flexed their fingers around the most suitable hand holds, wanting to be sure of their grip.

On hands and knees, Ada threaded an arm under the metal, dipping so low that her chest almost touched the ground, and snugged a firm grip on Dean's shirt under his shoulder. Maud followed suit on the opposite side.

"Okay," Ada announced, and on the count of three, Sam and Dave started lifting.

An involuntary groan escaped Sam at the unexpected heaviness of the load, the chandelier weighed a ton, just to gain an inch put unbearable strain on his back and arms. He once again felt an appreciation for the concertina effect as it landed, if not for that he and Dean would have been in real trouble.

Ada and Maud gingerly pulled Dean toward them, but immediately there was a yelp of pain and he cried, "Wait. There's something in my back."

Maud flattened herself on the floor and snaked her hand under the wreckage, blindly patting Dean down, trying to locate the protrusion. At her furthest reach, near the top of his jeans, she discovered a small metal strut spiking down that had pierced both his t-shirt and the overlaid buttoned shirt and was scraping against his skin. Her fingers tried to flick the material over the spike but her reach was just too short to get the job done.

"Shit," she muttered to herself as she tried to figure out how to deal with it. They couldn't continue pulling Dean forward without neutralizing the spike, it would only tangle further in the material and probably cause a long rip in his skin. Already she could feel a telltale wetness on the clothing and guessed that his back had been punctured when the fixture landed.

In a flurry of movement Maud extracted her arm from underneath the ruins, registering a fleeting dismay at the blood on her fingers and palm that was not her own, then bounded to her feet and quickly but carefully picked her way in amongst the shattered chandelier until she was above the errant strut. She reached down and threaded Dean's shirts over the end of the spike and smoothed out the clothing to avoid it snagging again, then pulled up on the spike as hard as she could, bending it slightly toward her, enough that it hovered just above Dean's body.

"Try that," she commanded Ada, and the blonde woman recommenced the slow extraction of the older Winchester, while Maud kept her hand on the spike to make sure it didn't catch on the material as it slid underneath.

Ada spoke to Dean quietly as she slowly and smoothly inched him out from under the ruined light, making sure he was okay, keeping him apprised of the progress. He was for the most part silent in return, although awake and aware, with just an occasional pained grunt escaping him accompanied by tight, suffering blinks.

When his arms were free of the wreckage Dean brought his elbows under him and did his best to aid the forward momentum, but a general weakness made his efforts fairly insignificant, it was Ada doing most of the work.

As Dean's legs slithered beneath the rim of the wreckage, Sam's arms started to shake with the effort of holding the heavy burden, his back screamed for relief and he ground out, "Jesus Dave, how did you expect this much weight to stay up on the ceiling?"

"Steel beams," Dave gasped in reply, "and a lot of reinforcing."

When the whole of Dean's body had passed under the spike that Maud held, she let go of her grip and picked her way out of the ruins, took a hold at the back of Dean's jeans and helped move him the last foot to freedom.

"He's clear," Ada finally announced with relief in her voice, and the men instantly dropped the chandelier with a groan before stretching and twisting to alleviate the tension in their bodies.

"I'll get the medical kit," Dave stated and hastened out of the room.

Sam fell into a crouch beside his brother and saw that Dean was feebly attempting to put some space between himself and the floor. He had managed to get his knees drawn up beneath him but was having trouble pushing off the ground, his arms visibly trembled at the effort, lacking the strength to extend and lock the elbows into place. Ada had an arm encircling his middle, not sure what the injured man was trying to do but supporting him the best she could, while Maud tutted and crossly scolded, "Would you just lay down."

_Good luck_ Sam thought, knowing Dean wasn't one to volunteer a vulnerable position. Maybe if it was just the two of them he would lay on the ground and collect himself, but with an audience watching Sam knew his brother was going to try and minimize his injuries, do his best to project situation normal and try to cut through the fuss.

Sam circled an arm around Dean's chest and Ada immediately drew away, allowing Sam room. He lifted the injured man up and around, and deposited him carefully onto the floorboards sitting with his legs out in front. Dean propped one hand to the side and found an uneasy balance. His head hung low on his chest and he brought his free hand up to press against the split in his skull, trying to counter the sting and throb.

When Sam was satisfied that Dean wasn't going to topple, he withdrew his supporting hands and ghosted them over Dean's body, looking for overt signs of injury. After concluding that, incredibly, Dean didn't appear to have any broken bones, he shifted Dean's hand away from the head wound and inspected the damage. He judged that the gash, although bleeding freely, didn't look too deep and probably wouldn't need stitching. He pressed around the edges and could feel the area starting to swell into a lump, but the fact that Dean didn't jump out of his skin at the contact made Sam hopeful that there was no underlying skull fracture and he allowed Dean's hand to drop back against the wound. He then placed a palm under Dean's jaw, lifting the head so that he could examine the eyes. He could instantly tell that Dean was having trouble with his vision, the green orbs moved sluggishly, they rolled rather than darted, and avoided fixing on close subjects, preferring instead the lazy horizon. It didn't necessarily augur a concussion, the pupils were fine and there didn't seem to be any short term memory problems, but Sam was inclined to err on the side of caution and resolved to keep a close eye on his brother for the next few hours.

Dean's bloodied fingers rounded Sam's wrist and pull the hand away from his face, "Enough Sam, I'm okay."

"Did you see…?" Maud softly addressed Sam, and lifted Dean's shirt to reveal a nasty cut low on his back that was oozing blood. Sam acknowledged with a stiff nod. He had seen it and was probably going to have to put a few stitches in it.

Dave returned and handed Sam a tool box containing some basic medical supplies. After rifling through, Sam pulled out a couple gauze pads, ripped open the packaging and placed one under Dean's hand at the head wound, then moved around to press one against the gash in his back.

"Nice light Dave," Dean quipped sarcastically as Sam ministered to him.

"It _was_," the manager replied with a pinched expression. "That's fifty thousand dollars that just fell on your head."

Dean exhaled sharply in disbelief. "I don't think I've ever been so expensively knocked out before."

"Yeah," Dave returned, his voice low with guilt. "I'm really sorry that happened."

"Many things have smacked this head Dave," Dean replied dismissively, "that light just happened to be the prettiest."

"You want me to call an ambulance?" the manager asked, and it was clear in his tone that he really hoped the answer was no, that he was beleaguered enough without having to explain this latest incident to the authorities. But there was genuine concern on his face, worry for Dean meant he would face whatever heat came his way.

"No ambulance," Dean retorted.

Sam was willing to dispense with the ambulance on his brother's behalf, he'd patched up worse, and they just couldn't take the chance on being recognized or uncovered as prison escapees, but he surveyed the women critically, noticing for the first time that they were pale and shaky and asked, "Are you ladies alright? You want an ambulance?"

Maud shook her head and gave the young man a half hearted smile.

"Well my dodgy hip's not going to be happy in the morning," Ada proclaimed, "but I'll survive."

"No ambulance," Sam confirmed and the manager's shoulders dropped in relief.

"What about Dean?" Maud queried, aghast. "He needs to go to the hospital."

"Nah I'm good," Dean replied, turning his head toward Maud to flash her a reassuring grin, but the movement made him dizzy and balance was a problem, he pitched sideways and would have met the floor if not for Sam grabbing a firm hold and steadying him.

"He'll live," Sam pronounced with a grim smile. "I'll get him back to the motel and clean him up, he'll be alright."

"What about you?" Ada asked.

Sam looked at her blankly, not sure of the thrust of the question. "What about me?"

"Well that thing landed on you as well. You've got a bit of a shiner and I'm sure your back must be killing you. If you're not going to get checked out at the hospital then you should at least come back to our place tonight."

Dean gave a muted laugh, "You've never had a better offer Sam."

The younger brother stared quizzically at the older. "She means both of us Dean."

The amusement disappeared. "Oh."

Sam was of the opinion that they would be better off returning to their motel, with their well equipped first aid kit and no-one around to raise eyebrows about how proficiently he could stitch up a wound.

"Thank you for the offer-" Sam began, but was cut off.

"It wasn't a suggestion Sam. You either go to the hospital or you come back to our place." Ada's voice broached no argument and without waiting for Sam's response, already knowing the boys weren't minded to go to the hospital, she turned to Dave and asked, "Can you drive us all home?"

"Yeah, sure."

And with that the decision was made, the brothers were going to be transported to Ada and Maud's house, whether they liked it or not. Dean, surprisingly, didn't raise an objection and Sam figured that had to be because he wasn't quite following the conversation, if he was compos mentis there was no way he would agree, it was not their style to get cosy, they preferred to maintain distance, make sure people didn't get to know them _too_ well.

Sam had protest on his lips but the stubborn set of Ada's face made him think twice about vocalising, it was unlikely to get him anywhere. He cast a helpless glance at his brother, searching for some compelling reason why they couldn't accompany the women to their house and when he drew a blank, sighed in resignation.

"I'll help you get him up," Dave offered with a nod at Dean.

He moved beside the injured man, on the opposite side to Sam and they each wound one of Dean's arms around their neck then hauled him to his feet. A throaty moan escaped Dean as he rose and he bit the inside of his lip to clamp it down. His already pale face drained of any remaining color, his head drooped and his legs folded beneath him, lacking the strength to offer any useful support.

Sam's eyes cut worriedly to him. He didn't want to draw attention to how awful Dean looked in case it resulted in a renewed call that he be taken to the hospital, but he felt compelled to ask, "Are you going to throw up?" because it looked like it might be a possibility and he wanted to be prepared if it was.

"God I hope not," was the miserable response, the bravado facade slipping for a moment, and the unexpected admission which hinted at how poorly Dean was feeling made Sam think maybe they _should_ be taking him to a hospital.

By the time they arrived at Ada and Maud's house less than fifteen minutes later Dean felt a little more in control. His head was pounding agony but his body was adjusting to it, his balance was better, his strength was improved. While the girls scurried into the house to make some preparations to accomodate the injured man and Sam had a few words at the car with the unfortunate construction manager, Dean gauged the distance to the door and reckoned he could make it unaided. He slid his legs out of the car, planted his feet on the ground and pulled himself to a stand with a death grip on the car door. When he had accustomed to the change in height, he gradually released his hold and began a slow shuffle to the entry.

When Sam noticed his brother's unsteady progress toward the house, he silently cursed Dean's stubborn self reliance and cut short his conversation with Dave to follow, but not before the manager had pressed his card into Sam's hand and extracted a promise that Sam would call if they needed anything.

Sam's attempts to take a supportive hold of Dean were irritatedly batted away. Not until they had passed the threshold of the front door, some sort of finish line, did Dean voluntarily reach for Sam's arm. Ada ushered the boys to a nearby bedroom, where Maud was fitting fresh sheets to the twin beds. She motioned them to the bed where the covers had been turned down and a towel laid across the sheets. Sam silently applauded the pragmatism, Dean was a bloodied mess, once he was cleaned up they could take away the towel and the bed would be ready to sleep on.

Dean carefully seated himself on the edge of the bed, atop the towel and allowed his head to fall onto his chest, the walk from the car having exhausted him.

Ada set down some face cloths with an accompanying bowl of water to swab the blood and placed a well stocked medical kit beside Sam.

"Not sure what you can use here, but grab whatever you want"

Sam gave her an appreciative smile. "Thanks. Is there anything in there for Dean's headache?"

"Oh, I've got just the thing," Ada replied and hurried out of the room.

"I'll go make us some tea," Maud stated, squeamish about the blood and keen to get out of the room.

Ada returned a few moments later, knelt beside Dean and handed him two pills with a glass of water. "Maud gets migraines and these little suckers always do the trick."

Dean didn't ask what the pills were, he didn't particularly care, he chugged them down with the water chaser and hoped like hell they were going to relieve the drum beat in his head.

Ada grabbed the glass from Dean's hand then frowned at his blood soaked back.

"You're gonna have to get those shirts off him," she said to Sam.

Dean huffed a tired laugh. "Bet you've been planning all night to get me shirtless."

Ada blushed and to Sam's surprise seemed flustered by the comment.

"Well I... erm...that would…" She stood up quickly. "I'll be back in a tick."

Sam sniggered as he carefully threaded Dean's arms out of his button down shirt.

"Dude, I think you just embarrassed Ada."

Dean snorted. "No way. She was talking about a 'full service' earlier, that woman is unembarrassable"

"Unembarrassable?" Sam clicked his tongue and shook his head in mock dismay. "You're making up your own words man, that's sad."

"Bite me."

Sam dumped the soiled long sleeved shirt onto the floor then pulled Dean's t-shirt up over his head and down his arms.

Ada poked her head round the door and bashfully averted her eyes from Dean's bare torso while waving a t-shirt vaguely in their direction.

"This might fit. You can put it on him when you're ready."

She threw the piece of clothing into the room, landing it on the opposite bed and was gone before Sam could turn around.

"Is it a man's shirt?" Dean called after her, but Ada had already disappeared, and he finished in a mumble, "because I'm not wearing any chick shirts."

"Oh yeah, she's embarrassed," Sam smiled. "I think she can talk the talk…"

He placed a clean gauze pad over the wound in Dean's back and positioned his brother's hand on it to staunch the bleeding, then using a dampened cloth started patting the blood away from the wound at Dean's head.

Dean's brow knitted. "Are Ada and Maud living here together?"

"I think so."

Dean was silent for a moment, and Sam just knew where his thoughts were heading. "Do you think her and Maud are….you know?"

"Partners?" Sam diplomatically offered. "Don't know man, two women living together…could be."

"Huh."

When Dean didn't say anymore Sam asked lightly, "Would that be a problem for you?"

"Nah," Dean quickly responded, apparently missing the humor in Sam's tone. "That's…cool." His forehead furrowed, "Although it's kind of insulting to men if they are. Maybe they didn't meet our best players."

Sam laughed and was about to make a comeback when Dean's eyes closed and he sagged under Sam's hands, his body tipped forward and his head came to rest on the younger brother's chest. With lightening reflex Sam's hand dropped to his brother's shoulder and caught him in a firm grip so that he wouldn't slump further.

"Hey? You okay?" Sam wasn't sure if Dean had just passed out.

"Never better," was the muffled reply, weariness blurring the edges.

"Clearly," Sam chuckled with relief. "I'm nearly done."

He pushed Dean upright but kept the supporting hand on the shoulder as he finished with the head wound as best he could, unable to remove all the blood matted into Dean's hair, then dabbed on some antiseptic and stuck a large bandaid over the whole mess.

He guided Dean face down onto the bed so that he could attend to the back injury and Dean let out a grateful sigh when his head hit the pillow. Sam's eyes raked over the welts and discolorations which marked his brother's back, the chandelier had done a real number on him, then set to with the cloth and water.

"So are we calling this an unfortunate accident or a close encounter of the spiritual kind?" Sam asked.

Dean grunted a response, but really, it was a rhetorical question. Chandeliers didn't swing wildly and plummet to the ground for no reason. Not even ridiculously heavy chandeliers.

"How come you asked Dave if the chandelier was original?" Sam asked, suddenly remembering Dean's query just before the fixture fell.

Dean drew back his heavy eyelids, trying to stave off the sleep that was so tantalizingly close and blew out an audible breath, annoyed by his brother's need to engage in conversation when he just wanted some peace.

"You know how spirits don't like their special places being touched?" Dean began, and then frowned, "Whoa, that did not come out at all like I intended." There was a pause while he mentally fumbled for the thread, tried to remember what he was saying and where he was going with it. "Um..yeah, what if the spirit at the construction site is trying to undo the renovation? What if it's main aim isn't to hurt people, it's to keep the place original."

"You were almost brained tonight," Sam pointed out.

Dean's eyes slid shut. "Nah-" and the rest was lost to mumble.

"What?"

A couple beats passed before Dean dazedly responded, "Huh?" and narrowly opened his eyes, drawing his brows down in confusion before the lids snapped together again.

Sam could tell that coherent conversation had come to an end for the night. "Forget it. We'll talk about it tomorrow."

The gash in Dean's back was deep and really could have used a few stitches, but not having their own first aid kit meant it wasn't an option, the women's kit lacked the necessary equipment. Sam considered running back to their motel for what he needed, it was only a few streets away, but in the end decided he would make do with butterfly plasters and see how they held up.

Dean was deeply asleep by the time Sam finished. Sam eased the towel out from under him and pulled the blankets up to his shoulders. As he stood up he saw the t-shirt that Ada had thrown in for Dean to put on. He gazed at his brother uncertainly, considering whether he could pull it onto Dean while he slept, but in the end decided Dean could don it in the morning.

He picked the bloodied clothing off the floor and went to find the ladies.

Ada and Maud were talking in low tones and it directed Sam to the living area in which they were seated. Both of them were sipping cups of tea and they looked up expectantly as he entered.

"Everything okay?" Ada asked with concern.

"Yeah, Dean's asleep. I'll give him a few nudges in the night to make sure he's alright but I think he'll be fine. Do you have a bag I can put these in?" Sam held up the bundled shirts in his hand.

"I'll take them," Maud jumped up and accepted the clothes from him, then moved past him into the next room. "How do you take your tea Sam?" she called through the door.

"Young men don't drink tea Maud," Ada stated before Sam could answer.

"What do they drink o-wise one?"

"I think there's beer at the back of the fridge, give him one of those. And get me a glass of wine."

Sam gulped at the idea of back of the fridge beer, who knew what condition that might be in, but he wasn't much of a tea drinker either and frankly alcohol appealed at the moment, he could use a little artificial calm.

Ada motioned for Sam to sit in the armchair next to her and cast an appraising eye over him. "Do you want some ice for that cheek?"

"No it's fine," Sam returned automatically. He'd forgotten he'd been hurt. Now that Ada brought it to his attention, he felt twinges and aches throughout his body.

Maud strode in and smiled as she handed Sam a beer then scowled as she thrust a glass of wine at Ada. "What did your last servant die of?" she grumbled, settling into the chair she had vacated and returning to her tea.

"You're the only servant I've had and I'm still waiting for you to drop off."

Maud laughed despite herself, then turned her attention to the young man and a frown crossed her features. "Are you alright Sam, you look a bit pale."

"I'm good, really." He ducked his head self consciously. Such minor injuries would ordinarily elicit no sympathy and it actually made him uncomfortable that the women were showing concern. He turned the conversation back on them by asking, "How about you two? You okay?"

"No worries here," Maud stated.

"Dodgy hip," Ada pointed to the offending area. "Bane of my life. But I'll live."

Sam nodded agreeably. "So... some evening." He winced at what a lame conversation starter that was.

"Yep," Ada awkwardly replied, quickly bringing the wine to her lips.

Sam tried again. "I thought you girls were going to get squashed when the chandelier fell. You must have moved really fast."

The women exchanged a look.

"Yeah, I guess," Maud half heartedly replied.

Sam shifted his gaze to the beer in his hand and started picking at the label with his thumb as he tried to figure out how to respond to that lie.

"The ghost of the construction site strikes again," he joked.

He looked up when the women didn't respond and saw panicked glances being thrown between them.

Trying to decipher why talk of ghosts had thrown the women into a spin, Sam dropped the playful tone and ventured hesitantly, "What? Did you _see_ the ghost?"

Maud met his eyes guiltily and replied with a drawn out, "No," that hinted he was on the right track, that the question wasn't worded properly and she was denying on a technicality.

Sam narrowed his eyes, searching for what her evasiveness might be about. "But you saw _something_?"

"No," Maud shook her head slowly, "we didn't _see_ anything."

"Okay," Sam nodded and felt like he was playing a game of twenty questions.

"That's enough Maud," Ada warned, "you're being silly."

But Sam wasn't ready to drop the subject, he wanted to know what Maud wasn't keen to reveal and continued, "So you _heard_…" Maud shook her head, "_smelt_…" another shake, "_felt_…" Maud's eyes darted nervously to Ada, then back to Sam and she gave a small nod.

"Oh for God's sake Maud," Ada barked impatiently, she twisted in her chair so that her whole body faced Sam and revealed in a rush of words, "Maud thinks the ghost pulled her out of the way of the light."

"You think so too," the brunette hotly defended. "You said you felt the same thing."

The penny dropped for Sam, that made sense, it explained the optical illusion, why he hadn't been able to reach Ada when the light fell. She _had_ been moving, just not under her own power.

"Yeah, but I wasn't about to discuss it in front of our guest," Ada retorted through clenched teeth, and both sets of eyes flicked onto Sam, gauging his reaction.

Sam wasn't sure what the appropriate response should be. Inexperienced ghost hunters would be shocked, right? Flabbergasted?

"That's… amazing," he stammered and frowned, not sure that he'd quite captured flabbergasted.

"Well, it's not something that needs to leave this room," Ada pointedly remarked and her eyes pleaded with him to keep the revelation to himself. He nodded his agreement. No need to tell _him_ how badly people reacted to talk of the supernatural, although he was surprised at Ada's reticence in _this_ town, he thought people were more open minded here, that they would like a new ghost story to add to the repertoire, but he let the topic drop.

The subject quickly changed to other things and Sam found he was inured to the way the women interacted, could see that insults and bickering were borne of affection and a very well developed sense of humor.

Conversation between the three became so comfortable that the women revealed quite a bit about themselves. Sam discovered that Ada and Maud had met through their husbands, firemen in the same New York brigade but didn't become close until after their husbands died fighting the same fire, the shared tragedy forming a bond.

"Not 9/11," Ada was quick to point out. "Everyone thinks it must have been 9/11 but it happened twenty years ago."

With a modest payout from the city, and each with a child to raise they decided to leave New York and move to Tombstone, a town that Ada had adored as a tourist. They had initially settled in their own houses, but when the kids grew up and moved out, and neither had found a new partner, about five years ago Maud sold her house and moved in with Ada, both as a cost saving measure and to stave off loneliness.

"Not that we don't have gentleman callers," Ada added defensively. "Cos, you know, clearly... we're hot, but the pickings are slim in this town and it's nice to have company."

Sam listened to it all sympathetically and mentioned that he too had lost his partner to a fire, skipping over the supernatural circumstances. It gave them all a lamentable comradeship, an empathy and understanding beyond the usual.

He punctuated the night with trips to the bedroom to check on Dean. They both knew the drill when it came to head wounds, Dean needed to be roused every few hours to assess the injury, make sure there wasn't a deterioration in his mental acuity. Dean was groggy but compliant the first few times Sam woke him, but as the night wore on he became increasingly discontented by the interruptions until finally he threatened Sam with physical violence if he woke him again, and given that they were well into the early hours, Sam was willing to accept that as a sign that Dean was fine and didn't need to be roused again.

He returned to his bed and lay with his hands under his head pondering why a ghost would drop a chandelier and then shift two people out of it's way. It wasn't trying to hurt people Dean had suggested, but that wasn't entirely convincing because people had been hurt, Dean could have been killed. It didn't follow any spiritual precedent that he knew of, a spirit both harming and saving, and he wasn't able to come to any solid conclusions about what might be going on at the construction site before sleep overtook him.


	4. Chapter 4

Aplogies for the delay in posting this chapter. There was a trans-continental relocation, some cultural adjustment to be made, but things are settling down now.**

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**Chapter 4**

Morning light crept through the thinly curtained window, splashing sunshine over Dean's face, causing him to unwillingly float up through the layers of sleep. The closer he drew to consciousness the more aware he became of an ache in his head, and then as he shifted, an ache throughout his body.

He opened his eyes to an unfamiliar room and it had him squinting in confusion. They moved around so much it was hard to recall from one day to the next where they were and he was baffled for a moment, could see that he wasn't in a motel room, and was horrified at the amount of floral surrounding him, until it clicked that they had returned to Ada and Maud's house last night and the whole sorry incident at the construction site flooded back to memory.

Instinctively a hand rose to the gash in his head, fingers touching the taped strip that Sam had placed over the wound. He could feel the swelling around the injury, there was a good sized egg on his head and he winced as a light touch aggravated the sensitive skin, causing a wash of heat to flood through him at the sudden spike of pain. He dropped his hand with a quiet curse.

Sam was sprawled on the bed opposite, tangled in the sheets, soundly asleep. His knees were up near his chest, the bed not nearly long enough to accommodate his height and it made Dean smile affectionately. _Gangly_ _freak._ He considered bellowing a wake-up call. There was nothing funnier than startling Sam wake, all flailing limbs and panicked eyes, but his head opposed the idea, the throb at his temples conveyed the message, _you raise your voice and there will be punishment_ and he regretfully let the opportunity pass.

He stared up at the ceiling for a few minutes, inwardly focusing, preparing to get up. As much as he wanted to stay in bed, coddle his sore body, he just couldn't abide the laziness, a trait inherited from his father. He could almost hear John saying _what are you, dying? Get your ass out of bed_ and that inward voice motivated him to action_._

He grasped a hold of the loosely covering sheets and flung them clear of his body, a grunt escaping him as that small movement gave him a preview of the bodily pain that was coming his way. But he didn't dwell on it. In the scale of things his injuries were minor, bump on the head, gash in the back, he'd suffered much worse and could certainly cope with whatever discomfort the current injuries caused.

He pressed an elbow underneath him, jamming it into the mattress, and pushed upward, following the bandaid principle that the quicker you did something, the less it hurt. And that principle was true to an extent. When he sat perched on the edge of the bed with feet flat on the floor, his body was in numb shock at the rapidness with which he'd risen, the pain slow to catch up with the movement. But the change in height affected him badly, giving the room a slow roll, making his stomach shift threateningly. He closed his eyes, dropped his head and pressed a hand to his brow waiting for the dizziness to subside, then had to adjust his posture, straighten his spine, as the slouch he'd fallen into put pressure on his lower back and flared at the puncture wound.

Experience told him that once he got to his feet and started moving around he'd be fine, internal adjustments would be made and the aches and pains would diminish, but that knowledge brought no relief to this warm up period, this internal kick start that had to be endured.

When he felt steady enough to open his eyes, he shot a weary look at Sam, expecting some sort of sarcasm, some sort of knowing look in witness of his struggle. But Sam was still asleep and Dean was both surprised and disturbed that his brother wasn't a little bit guarded, that he wasn't sleeping a little closer to the surface in a stranger's house.

As he prepared to rise and venture out of the bedroom, he considered his bare-chestedness and whether he wanted to encounter either of the female occupants in his state of undress. He decided, more out of etiquette than shyness, that it would be better to cover up and scoured the floor for the shirts he had been wearing the previous evening, but could see only the white t-shirt that Ada had offered and the long sleeved buttoned shirt that Sam had been wearing over his tee, discarded for sleeping.

He reached down and plucked Sam's shirt off the floor, uncomfortable at the idea of wearing a stranger's clothes. He pulled on the shirt with slow, careful movements and appreciated how little effort donning a buttoned shirt involved, how little movement it required of a battered body, much less than putting on a t-shirt.

With most of the buttons secured, the last few at the bottom unnecessary given the length of the shirt, he drew in a bracing breath and stood up. His balance was shot, which he had anticipated, he had plenty of experience with head injuries, and he kept a vice like grip on the foot of the bed until the ground evened out beneath him, felt less like the rolling ocean, then shifted a palm to the wall and commenced his progress out of the room, taking a blind guess at direction, completely ignorant of the layout of the house.

By the time he found himself in the doorway to the kitchen, where Ada sat at a breakfast table reading the newspaper, he had an adjusted normality, was moving freely with very few tells that he was hurting.

"Morning dipstick," she greeted, her eyes not leaving the page.

Dean looked around, not sure if she was talking to him.

"Morning," he returned uncertainly and Ada whipped the newspaper to the side to peer at her companion.

"Oh Dean," she said, flustered. "I'm sorry I thought you were Maud."

"Really?" he returned, eyebrows doing a quick up and down. "Was it the hair?"

Ada laughed. "I never said you _looked_ like Maud, I just didn't know you were up." Her face creased suddenly in concern. "Should you be up? What are you doing up?" She laid the newspaper on the table and leaned forward in her chair. "Go back to bed and I'll bring you something to eat."

"Nah, I'm fine."

"Really?"

There was both suspicion and amazement in her tone. She regarded him closely, her stare wandering to the covered head wound, then down to his midriff as if she could see through to the wound hidden at the back. Her brow furrowed, she didn't seem convinced of the recovery, but she stopped short of accusing him of lying.

"You must be a quick healer because something like that would have laid me out for a week."

Dean gave her a perfunctory smile. She was fishing for information, trying to get conversational about his state of health and he wasn't buying into it, which must have been a surprise to her because she waited for a response. When none was forthcoming and the silence became awkward Ada said quickly, "Can I get you something? Coffee? Tea? Breakfast? I could whip up some pancakes."

"Coffee would be great."

Dean drew out a chair and made the quickest of calculations about how to sit in it without putting strain on his injured back, before casually dropping down and perching forward, forearms on the table unobtrusively bearing some weight.

Ada rose from the table, turned on the kettle and reached into a cupboard for a mug.

"How's the back? You look a little uncomfortable," she stated.

Dean leaned back slightly in the chair trying for a more natural pose. "It's fine."

"It was a pretty deep cut, you should probably get a doctor to look at it."

"I'll survive," he dismissed.

Ada hummed her disapproval and turned to him with folded arms. "What about the head? I'm pretty sure I could see brain last night you should definitely get that checked out."

Dean laughed and pointed a finger at the head injury, "Sam put a bandaid on it, the universal fix all for exposed brain injuries, so it's fine."

Ada's lips begrudgingly turned upward in amusement. "You shouldn't be so cavalier with your health. Take it from someone who knows, how you treat your body now is going to have repercussions down the road."

"I guess," Dean conceded, dropping his gaze as he contemplated whether he'd live to an age when his body breaking down would be an issue.

"Now tell me honestly, do you have a headache? Because I could get you some more of those tablets you had last night"

Dean gave a short laugh. The woman was relentless in her probing. And if they were talking honestly the pounding in his head _was_ becoming more pronounced. "I guess I wouldn't say no," he replied with a grin.

She nodded with a sly smile, like she'd known all along he was being coy. "Okay. I'll get you a couple." She exited the room with a cheerful, "Morning Sam," to the young man entering.

Dean sagged a little upon her exit, drained by the minor interrogation. He gave his brother a weary eyebrow raise in greeting.

"I guess I don't need to ask how you feel," Sam said, as he sat across from his brother at the table.

"I'm good," he returned and sat up straighter to prove the point. "I laugh in the face of falling chandeliers."

"Chandeliers don't have faces," Sam facetiously pointed out.

"Just…," Dean closed his eyes and shook his head, "...don't. It's too early in the morning for smart mouths."

Sam smiled. "I've got some stuff to tell you about that falling chandelier."

Dean perked up. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. Last night I was asking the girls how they moved so quickly to avoid it and apparently something _pulled_ them." Sam lingered on the word for effect.

"Pulled them? As in, got them out of the way?"

Sam nodded.

"Huh." Dean pondered the information. "So a spirit dropped the chandelier, but then _saved_ the girls," he mused. "You know that kind of fits in with my theory."

"I didn't quite get your theory last night, you wigged out half way through telling me."

Dean gave a mock frown. "Really? I don't remember putting a wig on."

Sam clicked his tongue, rolled his eyes. "I thought it was too early for smart mouths."

"Not _my_ smart mouth."

"Just shut up and tell me your theory," Sam said shortly.

Dean grinned, always pleased to annoy his brother, then had to quickly put his smugness aside to arrange his thoughts, try and recall what exactly his theory was.

"I was thinking that the spirit doesn't seem focused on hurting people, it seems to be more about stopping the renovation. When you look at the accidents, they're almost pranks. I mean locked in a cupboard? Stuck in cement? The spirit doesn't seem to be acting with death in mind, it's more interested in disruption."

"Okay, that's where you got to last night, and I pointed out that _you_ were hurt. You could have been killed, either of us could have been. How does that fit into your theory?"

"But we weren't under the chandelier when it dropped," Dean returned, quirking his eyebrows. "We threw ourselves under that thing, if we'd jumped the other way it would have missed us."

"I guess," Sam said slowly, turning it over in his mind. "But that's pretty unconventional, a spirit with a conscience. Maybe you're giving it too much credit, maybe it's just really bad at killing people."

"And what, it pulled Ada and Maud in the wrong direction?" Dean countered. "I don't think so, I think the spirit is trying to show its dissatisfaction with the renovation _without_ killing people. And yeah, that's unconventional. I've never come across a spirit with a pro-life policy before." Sam sniffed in amused agreement and there was silence for a moment as they both ruminated on what they might be dealing with, why the spirit was acting uncommonly, before Dean shifted in his chair and stated, "But you know what? It doesn't really matter that this spirit isn't killing people, it's still injuring them, it's still causing disruption, so the solution remains the same, we've got to figure out who it is and send them on their way."

Sam was about to voice his agreement when a flicker of movement in his periphery made him turn his head toward the doorway, where Ada stood frozen, her face dark with suspicion. There was no doubt she had heard part of the conversation. Sam had no idea how much or which parts, their voices had been pitched low, he was surprised she'd heard anything, but the look on her face, disappointment and betrayal, was evidence that they hadn't been as quiet as they thought.

He felt a twist of guilt in his stomach. They hadn't been completely honest with their hosts, their freedom was too delicate for wild truths, for revelations that might lead to doubts about their sanity or intentions. Nevertheless, he genuinely liked these women, he respected them, and it pained him to think that Ada was revising her opinion of them.

"Here."

Ada dropped two tablets in front of Dean then fetched him a glass of water. She stood over him, hands on hips, while he swallowed the tablets with the water chaser, nobody breaking the silence, unsure of what to say, of how to address what had just been overheard.

"Morning boys," a freshly showered Maud cheerily greeted them. "How is everyone this fine…" her sentence petered out when she noticed the tension in the room, overseen by Ada's dour expression. "Did I miss something?" she asked her friend.

"I'm not sure Maud." Ada pursed her lips as she addressed the brothers. "_Did_ she miss something boys?"

"Uh, I don't…" Sam cast his brother a plaintive glance, looking for some guidance. Dean's eyes were hard, unapologetic, and filled with _this is why we don't get cosy with people_. It wasn't helpful.

"Don't you bullshit me Sam." Ada's finger waved around, underscoring her anger. "There's more going on here than a couple of plonkers looking for a thrill, don't you insult me by pretending there isn't."

Maud's eyes went wide at her friend's attack on their guests. "Ada?"

Ada's steely gaze shifted briefly to the other woman then back to the boys.

"Please Maud, trust me on this one. There's something going on here, the Chippendales aren't telling us the full story. My instincts have been nudging me about these guys since we met them but I got sucked in by the pretty faces."

"But they tried to save us…" Maud weakly objected, regret in her voice, confusion obvious.

The brothers looked at each other and Sam raised an eyebrow in silent plea that they reveal _something_, make an honest effort to smooth the waters. Dean rolled his eyes in exasperation, not much for water smoothing, or for trying to salvage relationships. But he figured they'd already been sprung, Ada must have heard enough to know they were a little more involved in the ghost business than they had let on, and if Sam wanted to try and make amends then what harm in digging the hole a little deeper. His mind was whirling with ideas of tv shows, or forensic investigators, or some front a bit less jarring than supernatural hunters, but he couldn't pull it together, suddenly he was feeling fuzzy and slow, the pills were having a marked effect on his though processes. In any event, Ada was pretty sharp and Dean suspected that a fanciful tale would only get them in more trouble, where maybe a version of the truth could calm her down. Worse case scenario, if revealing more had Ada calling 911, they'd bolt and put the town in their rear view.

Dean propped his chin on his hand, needing support for his increasingly heavy head, then with a quick disapproving look at Sam, a look that said _this is a dumb idea_, confessed in a flat even tone, "Okay, you got us. This is what we do for a living. We hunt out supernatural creatures and stop them from hurting people."

Dean mentally kicked himself for using the words _supernatural creatures_. He should have said _ghosts _and left it at that, these women didn't need to know their interest extended beyond ghosts. Now he'd opened an unnecessary can of worms and he was an _idiot_.

Maud let out a shocked breath and regarded him warily. She had been taken aback by Ada's accusation that the boys weren't all that they appeared to be, she had thought they were lovely young men seeking adventure, indulging a penchant for horror movies. Now that it was confirmed that they hadn't been entirely truthful she was wondering who the hell they had taken into their home. She was starting to feel like an old fool.

"What sort of supernatural creatures?" Maud asked quietly, a quaver in her voice, eyes darting between the brothers

Sam looked to his brother for permission to elaborate and Dean gave a barely perceptible nod, happy for Sam to continue the explanation that he had so soundly screwed up. The damage was done now, _too much_ had been revealed, they might as well tell it all.

"Ghosts, Vampires, Werewolves," Sam listed without emphasis, not wanting to dramatise. "You name it chances are we've seen it."

"And killed it," Dean added.

"Yeah," Sam agreed with a small huff of laughter. "There are a lot of things lurking in the dark. We're just trying to keep people safe."

Maud took a few small steps closer to Ada and flashed her an _are we buying this?_ look. The dark haired woman took her cues from the blonde, if Ada's reaction was to say, "_Get the hell out_," then Maud would follow suit. Ada had an indefinable understanding of people and situations, a sixth sense that was, at times, freakishly accurate and Maud had learned to trust her friend's instincts.

Ada knitted her brow as she sized up the boys. Pursed lips indicated her displeasure at their previous lack of forthcoming, but she wasn't one to rush to judgment. She took a moment to consider what had been revealed, weigh the honesty of it, and reconcile it with the impression she had formed of the brothers.

"Well," she uttered coolly. "That's one hell of an explanation. And normally I'd give you a slap for thinking that we're stupid enough to believe such fairy tales." She paused dramatically and raised one eyebrow. Then her face softened, a wan smile pulled at her lips. "But for some bizarre reason, not only do I believe you, but I trust you both too. Which is crazy given how you've _lied_ to us from the get go." Her emphasis on the word was a warning that she would not tolerate dishonesty again, she was letting them know she found it inexcusably offensive. "But I don't see what possible angle you could have in telling such an outrageous story. And it actually explains a few things." Ada didn't elaborate on what those few things were, just combed her fingers absently through her hair and muttered, "Jesus Christ, vampires and werewolves? I don't think I want to know about that. Lets just focus on ghosts for the moment. If you think you can stop the accidents at the construction site, then we're in, we'd like to help."

The brothers let out a sigh of relief and Dean started to chuckle. "Man, I think that's the easiest sale we ever made." He jerked a thumb at his brother, "It was the puppy dog eyes, wasn't it? They'll get you every time."

Sam hissed through a faux smile, "You're not helping."

A grin broke over Ada's face and the tension in the room dissipated. "They certainly are very persuasive puppy dog eyes," she stated and walked across the room to ruffle Sam's unruly hair, then sat down next to him. "So what happens now? You got any ideas about what's going on at Dave's place?"

Maud came and sat at the table with the group, eager to be involved in the discussions.

"Well..." Sam darted a gaze at his brother, making sure Dean had no objection to sharing information about the construction site, and frowned when he noticed that Dean's eyes were slightly glazed, opening and closing slowly. He seemed on the verge of falling asleep.

"Yeah, those pills will knock you out," Ada commented, when she noticed the injured man struggling to stay awake. "I should have warned you, sorry."

Dean glared accusingly at Ada like she had deliberately tricked him, then slapped his hand on the table and declared, "Then I guess I'm going back to bed."

He pushed himself to a weary stand and said to his brother, "You tell them what you want, this grave couldn't get any deeper," then lurched to the wall for support and started toward the bedroom.

Sam half raised himself in the chair, considering offering assistance, then slunk down, fairly certain he would rebuffed.

"I'll bring you a cup of tea," Maud called after the departing man, and got a lazy thumbs up in return.

When Sam was alone with the women, looking into their expectant faces, he realised that he didn't have much to tell them. He was fairly confident a spirit was haunting the construction site, it seemed the most logical explanation for what was occurring, but he didn't know who and he couldn't really explain why other than to say _spirits are protective of their special places_. It ended up sounding a little lame. So as not to appear a complete amateur, he told the girls a little about how they dealt with spirits, about salting and burning the bones, which drew horrified gasps and a look of distaste. He kept the explanations simple, didn't go into too much detail about any aspect of the job, which was ingrained habit, self preservation, the less people knew about what they did the better for everyone, and concluded by saying that the next step was research, trying to figure out the identity of the spirit. The women's eyes lit up at that, both expressing an interest in being involved in the detective work, and Sam was non-commital in his response, not sure if Dean would be amenable.

With Dean asleep Sam decided to return to the motel to freshen up and get organized. And enjoy some time away from his brother. Over the extended period that he and Dean had been living together, Sam was of the increasing belief that they needed space apart, to maintain their independence and their sanity.

And for a while it was refreshing, the quiet, the lack of sarcasm, the lack of command, Sam pottered around the room unhurriedly. But the solitude lost its sparkle when he entered the shower with the intention of lingering for a luxuriously long period. As soon as the spray hit his skin he felt edgy, accustomed to Dean being in the next room, watching his back. He felt vulnerable without that backup, kept imagining creatures sneaking up on him, kept hearing phantom noises just beyond the bathroom door.

He laughed wryly to himself and made fun of his insecurity, but got out of the shower way sooner than he had intended. He then punished his weakness, his discomfort at being solo by deliberately dawdling at the motel, taking longer than required to return to Ada and Maud's house, and to his brother.

An hour later, Sam quietly let himself into the women's house, not wanting to disturb Dean's sleep by knocking. He was surprised to hear his brother's voice coming from the living room.

"Oh wow. She's hot," he heard Dean say.

Sam found the group in the living room, looking at a collection of photographs spread across the mantel and up onto the wall. Dean had a photo frame in his hand and Ada stood close beside, sharing the view, while Maud hovered uncertainly behind, trying to peer over Dean's shoulder without invading his personal space.

"That's Kate, Maud's daughter," Ada replied with a chuckle in her tone. "She's a paramedic, lives in Bisbee." Ada slapped her forehead and exclaimed, "We should have called _her_ last night, she would have known exactly what to do with your bloodied self." She tsked regretfully before continuing, "She's a lovely girl, married to a very nice guy, Rob. They haven't got any kids yet, but Maud's hoping for soon."

Sam announced his presence with a, "Hey," and the group turned toward him.

"Hey," Dean returned. "You should see Maud's daughter, Sam. _Nice_."

"How long have you been up?" Sam asked and cringed at the challenge in his tone, he wasn't trying to start something.

"I don't know." Dean was predictably defensive.

"About fifteen minutes," Maud offered.

"You feeling okay?" Sam persisted.

"Am I up and moving around?" Dean replied irritably. "I'm fine. Could we move on from that?" He flashed his brother a warning look.

"Yeah, he had a breakfast beer so he should be feeling pretty good," Ada piped up.

"He what?" Sam responded aghast.

"Joking Sam." Ada said with a laugh, flicking her eyes to Dean. "But I think it says something about you that he believed it."

"It just says that Sam's gullible."

Maud gave Sam a sympathetic look and moved toward him to whisper conspiratorily, "I know what it's like dealing with a person who doesn't understand physical limitation. Ada acts like she's 27 half the time, until she does something stupid and her body reminds her that she's old and needs to settle down."

Sam nodded in understanding. "Dean _is_ 27, he's always doing something stupid and there's no way he'd settle down."

Both Dean and Ada uttered indignant protests at the same time, _Are you right there? We can hear what you're saying! _

Sam and Maud exchanged amused smiles, comrades in their shared frustration.

"Who are the photos of?" Sam put down the duffel he was holding and moved in tandem with Maud toward the photos lined up on the mantel.

It was Ada who answered. "There are some of my family and some of Maud's family. Dean got side tracked by Maud's daughter. Thank god Kate got her looks from her dad's side of the family"

"Hey! Bite me" retorted Maud

"I'd rather bite Anthony Dinozzo" came back Ada's reply.

"He'd have you up on charges," Maud said tartly.

"Check out Kate," Dean urged his brother, ignoring the interaction between the women and handing over the frame in his hand which contained a photo of a beautiful dark haired girl, posing in a lush garden setting with an alluring smile on her face.

"Wow."

"What did I say?"

"You boys are making me nervous," Maud laughed. "I know she's gorgeous but she _is_ married."

"Just appreciating the scenery Maud," Dean replied flippantly as he returned the photograph to its place and picked up another, of Ada and Maud in their younger days, presumably with their husbands, laughing and smiling.

Sam found it disconcerting, unexpected, that Dean was interested in photographs of someone else's family. And it was more than polite interest, he was looking closely at the pictures. Appreciating, perhaps, the glimpse into what normal life was like. Yearning maybe for a life they might have had if their mother had lived.

"Hey, you girls looked good in the day," Dean commented.

"You saying we don't look good now?" Ada retorted.

Dean jerked his head up, looking like a deer in the headlights and Sam couldn't help but smile, his brother had walked right into that one.

"No, uh- I just meant, you looked good then and you look good now."

Ada and Maud burst out laughing and Ada nudged Dean, "Man, you are just too easy. When you hand me ammunition on a plate, be kinda rude of me not to use it"

Dean accepted the ribbing good naturedly and moved over to look at picture of a handsome young man in a firefighter uniform. Ada was on tip toes looking over his shoulder and a proud expression came over her face.

Dean turned to look at her "Who's this? One of your toyboys?"

Ada blushed and gazed at the picture.

"That's my son, Charlie. He's a fire fighter just like his Dad. Boy was he was a handful growing up. His dad died when he was ten and he went wild in his teenage years. When he told me he was joining the fire brigade we almost came to blows, after losing his father that way I would have done anything to keep him out of it. But we've made our peace and he's found someone brave enough to take him on. He lives in New York but he gets over to see us when he can."

She smiled up at Dean, a soft expression on her face. "You remind me of him. You've got that same handsome, devil may care thing going on. It makes me want to hit you and hug you at the same time." She chuckled. "I'll bet you gave your mum a hell of a time when you were a kid."

Dean gave the blonde haired woman a faltering smile, quickly returned the photo of Charlie to its place on the shelf and turned to Sam. "So what's on the agenda this morning?"

Sam wasn't surprised by the abrupt change in conversation and felt a little sorry for Ada who seemed taken aback at the sudden turn, unaware that she'd wandered into dangerous ground.

"Uhh- research I guess. Get some background on what's gone down at the construction site in the past."

Dean nodded his approval. "Cool."

"I brought you a change of clothes so maybe you want to freshen up first."

"Yeah, okay." Dean went and picked up the duffel, bending and straightening with noticeable care. Maud trailed after him as he left the room, giving him directions to the bathroom and where he could find a fresh towel.

Ada sidled up to Sam with a worried look on her face. "Did I say something wrong?"

Sam paused. He didn't particularly want to start a conversation about their mother and he certainly didn't want to reveal that Dean was still cut up about her death twenty years later, that was just too personal. He shrugged mildly and said, "We lost our Mom when we were very young," and left it at that, hoping she wouldn't ask any more questions because he knew Dean wouldn't appreciate having their history laid bare.

"Oh Sam, I'm sorry," Ada said gently, then replayed in her mind the conversation with Dean and muttered, "Fuck. What did I say? Talk about putting your foot in it. What an idiot."

"It's okay. You didn't know."

"Should I apologise to him?"

"No," Sam advised. "I'd leave it alone."

Ada glanced uneasily toward the door, considering going to find Dean anyway. The young man pulled her attention back to him by saying, "I'm going to need to surf the net to do some research, do you have a connection here?"

The blonde woman gave him a wan smile. She knew he was changing the subject, trying to distract her from her inadvertent faux pas. She decided to play along.

"Yeah, come and we'll get you set up in the study."

When Dean emerged a half hour later he found Ada and Sam sitting shoulder to shoulder at a desk in the study, laptops open in front of each, both engrossed in the information appearing on their screens.

"What are you nerdlingers up to?"

Without shifting his gaze Sam replied, "I'm looking for strange or unsolved deaths at the construction site and around Tombstone and Ada is looking for information about previous renovations or strange occurrences at the site."

"Thrilling times," Dean intoned dryly.

"And you know what that leaves for you?" Sam commented.

"What?" Dean thought about it for a minute before his face collapsed in disgust. "Oh man! Not looking through records?"

"We need to find out about the owners of the construction site over the years." Sam turned toward his brother with a smug grin. "Someone has to do the grunt work, and seeing as you refuse to join the technological age, I guess it has to be you."

"I shouldn't be punished for _not_ being a dork," Dean mumbled, then expelled a heavy breath. "So I guess I got to find the library. Alright Ada, tell me where to go." His finger shot up to point at her, "And be careful how you answer that. My sunny disposition just took a nose-dive."

Ada silently cursed the lost opportunity to make a joke of his choice of words. "Take Maud with you, she'll show you where it is," and before Dean could object, Ada called to her friend in a shrill, piercing voice.

After a few moments Maud came up behind Dean looking harried and put out. "What?"

"Put your OCD duster down and take Dean to the library. He needs to look up some records."

"Oh." She looked at Dean. "Okay. When? Now?"

"No, listen, you don't have to _come_, just point me in the right direction."

"No," Maud protested. "I can't send you out to wander the streets of Tombstone alone. What sort of hostess would that make me?" She waved her hand, "I'm only doing the ironing, so I can walk you there. Can I do some researching too or do I need to bring a book?"

"You're going to a library you plank," Ada pointed out. "They _may_ have some books you could read."

"Get stuffed."

Dean was a little put out at the idea of Maud walking him to the library _and _staying with him. He wanted to be gracious, he knew her intentions were good, but he felt like a child getting his hand held. And having outsiders involved in their business was difficult for him, flew in the face of what their father had taught them, even when the outsiders were as accepting as these two ladies.

But then he thought about the research. How dull it was. How much he hated doing it. And suddenly the thought of a lackey was appealing.

"If you _wanted_ to help with the research I guess I wouldn't say no. Probably get it done in half the time."

Maud's face brightened, thrilled at the idea of helping solve a mystery. "Okay then. Let's go?"

At Dean's nod the two exited the room with an offhand, _see you later_. Sam could hear as they retreated Maud questioning Dean about what they were looking for and his brother's patient answers. He smiled. Interaction with someone other than him for a while would be good for Dean.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

It was hours later when Dean and Maud returned to the house. Sam had called his brother in the interim to check on progress and heard, in no uncertain terms, all about how tedious it was putting together a chain of ownership. As if he'd never done it. But he had patiently endured the tirade because he knew research didn't suit Dean, knew that paper trails bored him, that inaction drove him crazy, and he also knew that once Dean blew off his pent up frustration he would get right back to work and finish what had to be done.

His name being yelled alerted Sam that Dean had returned. And not in very good humor.

"We're in the study," Sam loudly directed, cringing at his lack of etiquette with Ada sitting right next to him.

When Dean's heavy steps approached, conversation between Sam and Ada suspended and they gazed expectantly at the door. With only the briefest hesitation, barely a glance in their direction, Dean commanded, "Come into the living room," and stalked off.

Ada and Sam raised their eyebrows at each other.

"When he asks so _nicely_…" Ada quipped.

"Research affects his personality," Sam confided, a pre-emptive apology for the mood Dean was in.

Picking up their jotted notes, the pair followed the older hunter to the living room. They settled themselves into the sofas, Ada beside Maud, Sam beside Dean and waited for Dean to open the discussion. He took his time in starting, flicked through some pieces of paper, re-read his notes, then without any prelude broke the silence so suddenly that Maud flinched.

"So as you know, Maud and I spent the past few hours putting together a list of owners for the construction site, the funeral parlor. The place is over a hundred years old so…" he pressed his lips together bitterly, "it took some doing. But lucky for you, we are awesome." He tipped his head to Maud, acknowledging her with the praise. "We found details of everyone who owned the funeral parlor, everyone who leased it and the names of some of the early employees. Trust me, it's a long and boring list, starting with," his eyes drifted to the paper on his lap, "Ed Scheifflin, the town founder. He was the first owner of the building, apparently he owned _all_ the buildings in the early years, but he never actually worked at the funeral parlor, he had guys manage it for him. The Scheifflin family sold the place in the twenties and it went through a string of owners until Dave bought it two years ago. Now what we did was match up death certificates to the owners and their family, looking for unusual or unexplained deaths."

Sam's eyebrows flickered up and down in surprise. That would have involved searching through marriage records, birth and death records, he hadn't expected Dean to be _that_ comprehensive, it was a lot of work. No wonder he was in a bad mood.

"Back in the early days," Dean continued, "a lot of people died young and it was hard to tell from the records what was suspicious and what wasn't. But there were a couple of red flags." He referred to his notes. "The first one related to a guy called Joseph Tranter, who managed the place from 1886 to 1905. He had two daughters die on the same day from gunshot wounds in 1889."

Sam made a noise at the back of his throat, halting Dean's report while he scanned his handwritten notes for relevant information.

"Were their names Madeline and Elizabeth?" he queried.

"Yeah."

Dean wasn't surprised that Sam's research intersected with him own.

"They were murdered," Sam read. "Their murderer was never brought to justice."

"Okay, well that's one to file away."

Dean dipped his head back to the page. "The other red flags occurred in 1912, when the owner, David Page, was killed by a horse hoof to the head. And I'll bet that hurt. Then in 1943, Doug Mulroney, the then owner, committed suicide. Although not at the funeral parlor." With a tilt of his head he added, "Probably would have been more convenient if he _had_ done it at the funeral parlor."

He gave his notes a final scan then popped his head up. "And that's it for the guys who died while currently employed at the funeral parlor. There was some other stuff we found, some questionable deaths over the years but it starts to get removed."

Dean directed his attention to Sam, a cue that it was his turn to report.

"I don't have much to add," Sam admitted. "The town has an incredibly violent history, the early years were almost lawless, people were getting killed at an alarming rate, although those little girls being murdered was uncommonly brutal. But there are no deaths that occurred _at_ the funeral parlor. Quite a few deaths occurred _around _the funeral parlor, and most of the dead _ended up_ at the funeral parlor," he shrugged, turned up his palms in a helpless gesture. "So I don't know, I've got this long list of people who met an untimely death since 1880 and no easy way to narrow it down."

Dean hummed his dissatisfaction and Sam looked up sharply because it sounded like Dean was disappointed in him, like he had expected something more and Sam had the urge to protest, to get defensive, but he bit back his words so as not to start an argument.

Dean turned to Ada with a wan smile. "You were looking into strange incidents at the construction site. Find anything?"

The request was impatient, perfunctory, embarrassingly dismissive and Sam was glad he had warned Ada up front that research affected Dean's mood, hoping she wouldn't take offence.

If Ada noticed the abruptness, she let it slide.

"Yeah, I found a couple of things. In 1910 a guy painting the place claimed that something kept shaking his ladder. But he was a bit of a boozer so no-one believed him, which makes it not a very reliable account. Then in 1933 the building was extended and it looks like there were some problems on-site although the report was a bit cagey about exactly what the problems were, so it's hard to tell if it's the sort of stuff we're looking for. Then in 1969 there was some sort of refit and some of the workers claimed they were interfered with."

"What?" Dean exclaimed, his eyebrows shooting toward his hairline.

Ada jumped a little in surprise, the response unexpectedly disproportionate to the information, until she realized there was another connotation to the word _interference,_ and Dean had misinterpreted.

"Not like that!" she cried. "I don't mean _that_ sort of interference." Ada couldn't help but laugh. Giving the word a sexual innuendo put an entirely different slant on the incident. It amused her that Dean had interpreted it that way, that he had subscribed to _that _meaning first.

Dean bristled. "Maybe you should choose your words more carefully."

"Sorry." Ada held up her hand in an admission of guilt, she could tell that Dean was offended by her laughter, that he thought he was being laughed _at _and she tried to mitigate by explaining, "That's just a funny image, workmen being interfered with by ghosts." She dropped her eyes to the handwritten notes in her lap, focusing hard on the words to regain her composure, but the phrase _interfered with,_ so innocently written, seemed to jump up at her from the page, fueling the humor. "I expect the workers might have enjoyed that," she added, the words catching in her throat, behind a renewed peal of laughter.

The rest of the group didn't find the misunderstanding quite so funny. They looked at her with polite smiles, indulging her sense of humour, but after a few moments Ada made a concerted effort to regain control. She clenched her teeth together, pressed down until her jaw ached and forcibly halted the laughter.

"Okay, as I was saying, the workers on the 69 job…" Ada's lips quirked, she paused and cut her eyes to Maud.

"This is serious Ada," the Aussie coolly instructed. "Keep it together."

Ada nodded at her friend's words, drawing on Maud's solemnity to push down her amusement. She smiled apologetically at the boys, cleared her throat and continued, "On the 69 job…" A cough of laughter escaped her and she clamped her mouth shut, nostrils flaring as her gaze shifted to the floor, desperately trying to ground herself.

"Stop saying 69 job," Maud offered evenly. "We've got that part, move on."

Ada didn't reply, couldn't while the urge to laugh was so strong. After a few seconds she breathed, "Okay, I've got it now." She swallowed a few times to ensure her emotions were in check, schooled her features into a serious expression. "In _that_ year some workers claimed their tools moved," a choked sound escaped the woman, "without being touched."

The floodgates opened. Ada laughed with abandon. And it wasn't that she found what she was saying particularly funny (although she did find it funny), it was more that suppressing her mirth had made it more insistent, build up within her until it couldn't be denied.

"Oh for God's sake," Maud declared, annoyed. "Are we going to have a problem with the word tools now?"

Ada nodded. "He started it," she gasped, pointing a finger at Dean. "Him and his sexual innuendo. Now everything has a double meaning. I'm only human." Her shoulders shook, tears slid down her cheeks and she slouched into the cushioning of the sofa, giving in to the laughing fit and waiting for it to pass.

Dean glowered indignantly at the accusation, turned up his palms and frowned at Sam in a protest of innocence. _What did I do?_

"My God. You're a child," Maud scolded her friend.

Sam turned away and stared into the distance with his top lip drawn between his teeth. The laughter was infectious. Maud's condescending disapproval was funny. And Dean being affronted by an accusation of sexual innuendo was hilarious. He could feel the corners of his mouth turning up, looking at any one of the group was going to get _him_ laughing.

A huff from his brother almost made him break.

After a few minutes Ada's humor subsided. She swiped away the tears, smoothed down her clothes and straightened in the chair, exhaling some becalming breaths.

"Okay, sorry about that. I think you get the gist of the 69 incident," she said. "That's it for my research, sorry it's not much, I'll look again tomorrow if you like. Oh," she added quickly, "obviously there's the stuff that's been happening with Dave. I don't know if you want me to list all of the incidents. There's certainly a lot of them." She furrowed her brow and lingered a gaze at Sam.

"What?" he prompted.

"It's just …the amount of stuff that has been going on with Dave seems a lot more intense than any of the other incidents. It's been one thing after another. Why so many?"

Sam gave a half shrug. "It's all part of the mystery," he flippantly offered, then added more seriously, "Spirits tend to get more insistent the longer they're around, the number of incidents tends to increase."

"So you think that the earlier incidents are connected to what's going on now" asked Maud.

"Probably" replied Sam "Same sort of pattern, non-life threatening accidents, all occurring when the place is undergoing renovation. Spirits can be pretty possessive of places they are attached to and renovations often stir them up"

Dean was quiet during Sam's explanation, which was surprising, he usually took the lead in conversation about the job, paranoid about how much was revealed. Sam's eyes darted to him, wondering if the silence equated to sulking, but Dean met his gaze with a thoughtful, open expression and said slowly, "You know, if we assume that the 1910 painter's claim is true, that something was going on at the funeral parlor way back, then we're looking for someone who died before that time."

Sam nodded his agreement.

Dean continued, "Which takes my red flags down to one, Joseph Tranter and his daughters."

" Joseph Tranter die prior to 1910?"

Dean flicked his eyes to his notes. "Yeah. 1905."

"So are you thinking it's him or his daughters?"

"Him. He spent most of his life working at the funeral parlor so he obviously had a connection to it, and when he died he would have been aggrieved that his daughters' murderer was never found."

"And that would make him a ghost?" Maud interjected.

"It _could_," Dean replied.

"So does that mean we do the burning bone thing now?" she pressed.

Dean gave his brother a sharp look and Sam averted his eyes sheepishly. The older hunter was surprised by the lack of discretion, by just how much Sam had revealed. But more than that, the presumption in Maud's question, the assumption that her involvement was going to continue, had him thinking it was time to pull back and get some distance. They weren't interested in taking on partners, they had no intention of involving these women any further in the job and there was nothing personal in that, it was simply a matter of risk assessment. Research was one thing but no way were these women getting their hands dirty and if they thought otherwise then it was time to correct that notion right now.

"No _we_ don't do the burning bone thing now," Dean replied. He shifted forward in the seat preparing to stand. "We say thank you for your hospitality and get out of your hair."

He rose and gave Sam a pointed look.

"Whoa, whoa. That's it?" Ada frowned, rising to meet him. "You're leaving?"

"Well...yeah," Dean replied flatly. "We _have _accommodation. And we don't want to involve you any more in our business. I mean you girls have been great …"

"Fuck you, _your_ business?" Ada snapped and Dean's mouth clicked shut. "You don't think the fact that we live here, and were pushed to safety by god knows fucking what, makes this _our_ business?" She glared at Dean in open disbelief. "You drop this _ghostbusters_ crap on us and then expect to just wave goodbye?"

Dean got a hard, stubborn look in his eye and said curtly, "Yeah we do. This stuff is dangerous. And your involvement is finished."

"The hell it is," Ada replied heatedly.

Both Maud and Sam rose quickly, sensing that the butting of these two hot heads could end badly.

"Okay," Sam interrupted. He pressed a hand into the middle of Dean's back and pushed him in the direction of the door. "Way to wear out your welcome dude. Try not to flip off the nice ladies as we leave." And with that he neatly sidestepped the argument, didn't have to reveal he was in agreement with his brother.

Dean didn't object to the manhandling, it was getting them to the door, which was where he wanted to go. And he kept his mouth shut. He didn't particularly want to burn any bridges, he recognized that the women had been generous with their time and their understanding, that they made for good allies. Maybe even more than allies, it felt suspiciously like they had veered into friendship. Better to shut up and not say something he would be sorry for later, let Sam take the lead.

Maud followed closely behind the boys as they moved toward the entry while Ada deliberately hung back, lips pouting in discontent. But when Sam shouldered the duffel and gave her a warm, appreciative smile over his shoulder, her attitude dropped. She took a few quick steps to catch up.

At the door Dean twisted away from the fingers in his spine to face the two women and said sincerely, "Thanks for all your help, we really do appreciate it." He cocked a finger at Maud, slipped on a cheeky smirk and added, "You can be my study buddy any time."

She chuckled, her color rose a little at the teasing flirtation but then her eyes clouded and she said seriously, "Just be safe. Okay? Whatever you do, wherever you go from here, just be careful."

Dean gave a half smile, not wanting to utter the cocky platitudes which sprang to his lips, not wanting to insult her by being dismissive of her concern but uncomfortable at the underlying emotion, reluctant to get involved in it.

It was Sam that replied, in his usual earnest way, "We will be."

Dean wondered how he could sound so honest. He wondered whether Sam really _believed_ they would be careful. Maybe Sam considered they were always careful and shit happened despite that care. Or maybe Sam was just really good at faking honesty.

"But we'll see you again," Sam insisted. "We're not going to head out of town without saying goodbye."

"You'd better not," Ada said tartly, but she appeared somewhat mollified and flashed him a warm, appreciative smile.

"Okay, let's roll." Dean flicked his brother's arm, gave the women a broad grin then dived into the humid afternoon stillness and strode toward their motel with an extended wave.

Sam said a final goodbye, enveloped each woman in a hug, then set his long legs to work catching up with his brother.

--

As light was turning to dusk the impala rumbled into the carpark of the Boothill Graveyard. The brothers were on a reconnaissance mission. Joseph Tranter was buried somewhere in the cemetery and they were going to save some time fumbling around in the dark by finding the headstone while it was still light, then return under cover of darkness to do the salt and burn.

The graveyard was a tourist attraction. Which was problematic. It was popular for a start, there were a number of people wandering around so they couldn't talk freely about what they planned for later. And an attempt had been made at security, a chest high wooden fencing ringed the area and there were a couple of cameras recording who entered and exited.

It was nothing insurmountable, just things that needed to be factored in.

They walked around the site playing the part of tourists, nonchalantly reading the headstones, some of which were quite amusing.

_Here lies Lester Moore. _

_Four slugs from a 44. _

_No Les no more._

Dean chuckled. Poor Lester. Made fun of in death. No respect.

The graveyard wasn't huge so finding Joseph Tranter's headstone didn't take long. The brothers lingered at the gravesite for a few minutes, making mental calculations about how best to go about the job later in the night, where they should dig, how they could best take advantage of the natural cover the sparse shrubbery provided and then moved on, always mindful of not drawing attention.

They returned to the motel for something to eat and a couple hours sleep then clambered into the car just after midnight and headed back to the graveyard, refreshed and ready for action.

Like thieves in the night the boys quickly advanced into the grounds and located the gravesite without incident or concern. They had agreed in advance that Sam would dig and Dean would stand lookout. Sam had insisted on it, arguing that the gash in Dean's back was only being held together by a few strips of tape and as soon as he did anything physical the healing skin was going to tear. Dean had objected of course. Any inference that he was incapable or incapacitated was always going to draw an objection. But truth be told he preferred working with a gun than a shovel so he had offered some standard argument before submitting to the demand and agreeing to be the sideliner.

Sam got to work quickly. There was virtually no moisture in the earth, the soil was loose and sandy, the shovel slid through with very little effort and it promised to be one of the easier graves he'd ever had to dig. Until the mound of displaced earth piling up beside the hole began to trickle down, back into the pit. It had Sam growling in frustration, digging the _same_ soil over and over. He revised his opinion of it being the easiest dig ever and changed his method so that instead of dropping the sand at the grave's edge he hefted it away, past the point where it could slide back in, and that very quickly started to tell on his shoulders.

Dean meanwhile, prowled the cemetery, shotgun hanging in his grip like an extension of his arm. He mused that the old boneyard probably harbored more than one spirit. The inhabitants harked back to a callous and unforgiving era, a lot of those buried must have been discontent in death. The likelihood didn't particularly concern him, the dead, the supernatural, they held no mystery or apprehension for him, it was just an interesting idea, that he might be walking among more than one restless spirit.

When Sam was about hip deep in the pit Dean's instincts were piqued and he wasn't exactly sure why. His gaze swept through the dark, searching for something out of place and when he found nothing tangible his heart beat a little faster because it meant it was one of those _in_tangible things, an indefinable change in the landscape, something in the air, something resonating within him.

He knew to trust that feeling.

He shifted the gun in his grip, found a balance between comfortable and primed, and took measured, watchful steps back to the grave's edge.

"Sam," he said gruffly.

Without looking up Sam griped, "Yeah I know. I'm going as fast as I can but the damn sand comes back in as fast as I can dig it out."

"I think something's going on," Dean stated, ostensibly ignoring his brother's complaint, but darting his eyes to the pit to see what Sam was grumbling about before returning his gaze to the surrounds.

The younger brother instantly straightened. "Oh."

Sam ground the shovel into the soil, stretched some relief into his back and sides and reached over to snag his gun from where it lay at the grave's edge. He remained in the hole and traversed his eyes across the landscape in a slow, steady sweep. He didn't ask questions, didn't want to break Dean's concentration and didn't doubt the truth of what his brother said even though nothing was discernibly stirring. After a minute or two with both men in a wary pose Dean glanced at his brother and said, "Keep digging. Dude, the sand is winning."

Sam made a face and did as instructed, lay his gun down within easy reach, picked up the shovel and continued ploughing the hole. He peeked at Dean every few minutes, in rhythm with the spade expelling soil, to keep a gauge on what was going on, taking cues from his brother's body language.

Dean returned to the prowling, a nervous habit as much as anything, a need to be active and moving. He didn't allow himself to relax, didn't dismiss the feeling that there was something afoot.

His eyes tipped to his watch, absently noting the time, and in his periphery he detected a shimmer. He whirled in the direction and narrowed his eyes as the shimmer took form.

A man stood before him, dressed in period outfit, a frock coat and a stiff, wide brimmed hat which looked to be from the late 1800s, although that was a detail Sam would be better at measuring, it was enough for Dean to conclude it was their guy, Joseph Tranter. The hunter's finger slid to the trigger, his aim became exact but he held off on firing, gunshots attracted attention and he would wait until they were directly threatened before taking that step.

The apparition's mouth moved, speaking, without any sound emitting.

Dean eyed the spirit warily, waiting for something more, alert for anything sinister, but it didn't advance, didn't move from the spot, just kept silently talking, pleading it's case.

"Dean?"

Sam's voice was pitched low, with underlying concern. He had his gun in one hand, the shovel in the other and was looking for guidance about which role he should assume.

"It's okay Sam," Dean replied in the same even tone, as if anything louder might startle the spirit or draw its attention. "It's stuck in a loop or something. I'm keeping an eye on it, just get that grave dug."

Sam resumed his task and Dean stood vigilant, gun never wavering from the spectre before him. After a while the hunter became fascinated by the ardent entreaty. He wasn't sure if the apparition was talking _to_ him or reliving some history. The spirit was becoming increasingly animated, punctuating words with gestures and facial expressions. Dean tried to lip read, tried to interpret what was being said, but was aggravatingly unsuccessful.

"I don't know what you're saying," he muttered with a shake of his head, a statement of fact rather than an intention to interact.

Suddenly the air sliced and folded and the apparition stood directly in front, inches away and laid a chilled hand on Dean's head. Through screeching feedback Dean heard in deafening volume, "You need to stop."

With a sharp intake of breath, the hunter convulsively pulled the trigger then crushed his hands to his ears. He fell to his knees with a grunt, eyes tightly shut as the words echoed clamorously through his head, an excruciating assault on his senses. He pressed his forehead against the earth, wondering with real concern if eardrums could be burst from the inside out and struggled to breathe through the pain, pushing and pulling air in rough gasps.

Gradually the noise subsided, tailing off with merciful rapidity until he was left with a residual buzz, white noise, which was infinitely more bearable than what had preceded. He dropped his hands from his ears and sighed with relief into the soil.

Sam was beside him. Even with his eyes closed Dean knew his brother was there, and he kind of expected that he would be, covering his back.

He pushed himself slowly up onto his knees and Sam's fingers twisted into the front of his shirt, pushing against his chest to help him find upright and Dean leaned into it for a moment, until he got his balance. Sam peered hard into his face, wide eyes telegraphing his worry and confusion.

"You alright?"

The voice was all wrong, distant and tinny, hard to make out through the background noise, but Dean heard enough to know he should nod.

"What happened?"

"Spirit," Dean breathed, still struggling to normalize. "It asked very politely that we stop."

Sam was quiet. He waited until Dean had pulled himself together, gained his feet, before asking, "Should we? Stop?"

Dean frowned, like the question was absurd. "Why would we stop?"

Sam pressed his lips together, gave Dean a look of rebuke that said _because you just collapsed, moron. _But he knew that wasn't a persuasive argument and offered instead, "Maybe the spirit is trying to tell us something. Maybe there's a reason that it's trying to make us stop."

"Since when do we take advice from spirits?" And so that Sam couldn't offer a comeback Dean continued firmly, "We're not stopping, so just keep digging. Let's get this over with."

Sam didn't move, considering insubordination. He had that dubious _you don't look so good_ expression on his face which always irritated Dean, made him feel like he needed to prove something.

Dean picked up his gun and when his brother stayed rooted to the spot asked innocently, "You want me to dig?" as if he didn't understand Sam's hesitation, as if the only possible reason for Sam not moving was physical incapacity. Dean backed up his offer with a step toward the grave, fully intending to take up the shovel if his brother took a stand, and Sam caught his arm. "No, I'll do it. I just…" And whatever he was going to say, whatever objection he was going to raise, he reconsidered with a shake of his head and ambled back to the grave.

It was less than ten minutes later when the spirit made a return. It appeared before Dean with hands open in appeal, lips moving in silent speech, and Dean blasted it without hesitation.

"Someone's going to hear all this gunfire," he speculated absently, grateful that the cemetery was somewhat removed from the town.

"Dean!"

The older Winchester swiveled at the call. Sam was backed against a side of the grave staring wide eyed at a female apparition no more than a foot before him. Clad once again in period fashion, the woman was entreating Sam with dramatic hand wringing and an anxious expression, looking like the heroine of a silent film. Sam was surreptitiously flexing his arm, reaching for the gun that lay just beyond him.

"Whoa. What?" Dean muttered, confused at the appearance of a _second_ apparition. But he stowed the speculation, put off the whys until later, as he scrambled toward the pair, seeking an angle that gave him a shot without hitting Sam.

The apparition outstretched her hand, laid it on Sam's head and ready or not Dean pulled the trigger, aiming as low as he could to minimize the consequences to his brother. The ghost scattered and Sam yelped in pain, collapsing to the bottom of the hole, below Dean's line of sight.

Dean's boots pounded the distance between them, the mantra playing through his head _I couldn't have killed him, I couldn't have killed him, it's only rocksalt._ But in that agonizing few seconds he considered all the damage _only rocksalt_ could do and came up with some breathtakingly awful results.

He skidded into the grave without any caution, lucky not to land on his brother and found Sam moaning softly, cradling his head. Dean's hands slapped at Sam's torso, shifting the material side to side probing for rips or wetness, then travelled up and under his jaw tilting the head back and around, chasing the moonlight so that he could get a clear view, before dropping the hands away with an abruptness that made Sam's head bounce and a relieved sigh that Sam was okay.

Sam was too preoccupied to care about his brother's rough ministrations. The clanging in his head was all encompassing. _You need to stop_ was bounding around his brain, ricocheting like a laser in a house of mirrors, and he was finding it hard to breathe through.

When he felt some recovery, regained some awareness, he scrubbed at his eyes and peered around to get his bearings. Dean was outside the grave, but close, within reach, and the tightness in his body, the stiffness of his posture told Sam he was tense, anxious, and pissed off.

"Oh man that sucked," Sam sighed, and Dean turned through the hips, raised one eyebrow and was about to offer a pithy rejoinder, _No shit_ or something of that nature, but took pity, felt a little guilty for not preventing the attack and spraying Sam with salt, even if it didn't do any visible damage and settled on an understated, "Yeah."

"She said to stop," Sam stated as he got his legs underneath him, using the shovel to lever himself up. He was speaking too loudly and a small smile flittered across Dean's face.

"You can turn down the volume," the older brother advised.

"What? Oh." Sam ducked his head in embarrassment. "She said to stop," he repeated more quietly, then realized that Dean had probably heard him the first time.

"Yeah, I got that."

Dean was distracted, focused on the surrounds and Sam said with commitment, "I think we _should_ stop."

He was aware that the idea was going to meet with resistance and he braced himself for the confrontation.

"What?" Dean blustered. "Why?"

"Because that's not normal. Two spirits at one gravesite? There's something weird going on here. Who's the woman? What's her connection to Tranter? Why do they want us to stop?" Sam paused for a beat to allow the unanswerable questions to hang in the air, to _emphasise_ how clueless they were. "We need to do some more research."

Dean's face creased at the suggestion. "Always with the research poindexter. Listen, the fact that there are spirits here revealing themselves to us is an indication that we're on the right track. Let's just get this salt and burn done, _then_ you can hit the books and figure out who the woman is."

Before Sam could protest the male spirit appeared once again, halting discussion. Dean's gun boomed through the silence and the spirit disappeared.

"Keep digging," Dean gruffly commanded.

Sam snatched up the shovel and fiercely ground it into the soil, physically expelling his irritation. He wasn't convinced continuing was the best course of action, was of the belief they should abandon the salt and burn until they were better informed.

When the spectre of a third person appeared Dean's shoulders slumped.

"Oh come on," he moaned.

The odds were swinging hard against him. He hesitated before pulling the trigger, taking in the features, the clothing, identifying features he could recall later when they engaged in the inevitable research, then exploded his gun dispersing the figure.

He snapped open the barrel, shook out the spent cartridges and fumbled in his pocket as the first male appeared simultaneously with the woman. He cut a frantic glance to Sam, waist deep in the hole, digging with determination. He had a moment of indecision about whether to call Sam out or keep him digging? If the coffin was six feet under the digging still had a ways to go, but if Sam was wielding a gun the hole wasn't going to get any deeper.

Dean didn't really make a decision, he just stuck with the status quo, Sam wielding the shovel. He considered giving his brother a heads up that there was a third guest at the party but Sam was already minded to quit and that would likely strengthen his resolve, so he kept it to himself for the moment.

He had a very bad feeling about being outnumbered. There was some writing on the wall that he didn't want to read. And he was most unimpressed that the ghosts were getting smart, starting to play the odds and double team him.

His practiced fingers jammed the first bullet into its housing, racing against time, denying the losing battle. Just as the second bullet slipped into the barrel, Dean felt the drawback of air, the plunge of temperature, cold fingers at his temple and tensed for the detonation.

"_YOU NEED TO STOP."_

The male voice was impossibly louder than before, a cumulative effect, a build upon the first attack. The gun slipped through nerveless fingers as Dean's hands clutched at his ears, hopelessly trying to dull sound that was coming from within. He hit the ground hard, no grace at all in the collapse. He was vaguely aware of the jarring impact, the whoosh of air from his lungs, but it was lost in the greater picture, the more pressing assault on his brain.

He may have passed out, he wasn't really sure. One minute he was writhing in agony the next the pain was abating. Whether it was a loss of consciousness or just a zoning out, he appreciated the time skip, appreciated that his body had cut through the pain for him. He regained his senses lying on his side, curled almost foetal and he stretched his legs out quickly to changed that position. The discord in his head leeched away slowly and his whole body trembled in the wake of such an overwhelming bombardment. He felt drained. He felt exhausted.

The report of a shotgun brought Dean back to his senses. His fingers scrabbled in the loose soil and he pushed himself onto hands and knees, then back onto his haunches, pausing to adjust to the new position and take stock of the situation. Sam was beside him, out of the grave, the shovel abandoned for the gun, and he stood in a defensive pose, although Dean couldn't see any spectres threatening for the moment.

"There's a third one?" Sam called, and he sounded annoyed. "This is getting out of hand. We need to stop."

Sam's repetition of what the spirits had said struck Dean as funny, ridiculous. A strangled laugh escaped him and he was dismayed at how it sounded, like he was about to lose it.

Sam's hand dropped onto Dean's shoulder, trying to get his attention. He was a little freaked out by the unexpected laughter.

"We need to stop," he repeated earnestly, with unshakeable conviction.

Dean looked at the hole. They were so close to finishing. Another few inches and the coffin would be exposed.

But there wasn't just the lack of odds working against them, how many gunshots had rung out? Five? Six? They couldn't get away with that for much longer, the police were going to check it out at some point, may already be on their way.

He stalled, twisted his head from side to side cracking vertebra and stretching tight muscles, then gave his brother a weary, defeated nod.

"Yeah. Okay."

He hated being the loser, hated that spirits had routed him, got the better of him. But as much as his subconscious was urging him to keep fighting, he could see the futility in the situation. And he couldn't take another one of those strident, deafening messages. The ghosts had the upper hand in this one, they weren't going to be able to finish the salt and burn. Better to regroup and come up with another plan of attack.

Sam rose and went to the grave, picked up the shovel and starting returning the displaced earth to the hole. Dean recovered his gun and pushed himself to a stand. He felt off kilter, a bit unsteady, but powered through it, determined to provide his brother with some protection and support against the possible recurrence of spiritual activity.

Sure enough, within a few minutes, a male apparition appeared, the initial apparition, the one Dean presumed to be Tranter, and started again with the silent appeal, the urgent plea.

Dean's grip on the gun tightened, and he yelled irately, "We're doing it. We're stopping. So just back off."

He pointed to the grave, to the decreasing hole, hoping to impart his own message, satisfy the spirit that it didn't need to assail him again with its overloud communication.

The apparition regarded him uncertainly, shimmered and shifted, but didn't move any closer. Dean took that as progress, until the two other apparitions appeared and flanked their friend. That did not bode so well.

He backed up slowly closer to Sam.

"We have company," Dean muttered out the side of his mouth. "A lot of company."

"Nearly done," Sam replied.

It was much quicker filling a hole than digging it and in only a few minutes Sam was patting down the earth, putting the finishing touches to Tranter's gravesite. He stretched to work out the kinks in his back and shoulders, and flicked his eyes between Dean, tensed to shoot, and the ghosts passively watching.

Suddenly, the three ghosts were gone, blinked out like a light blown a bulb.

"What the hell?" Dean cried.

He shook his head, questions and inconsistencies crowding his mind. He turned to Sam with his hands out wide, not knowing where to start, then threw the hands up and thought better of starting at all.

"Let's get out of here."

The boys wearily packed their equipment into the duffel, frustration and defeat in both their posture. When they were ready to depart Dean tapped Tranter's headstone with the toe of his boot and announced, "We'll be back. Don't think that you've won or anything."

They began a weary walk to the car, Sam bringing up the rear, when he piped up, "I think your back is bleeding."

Dean gripped the bottom of his shirt and arched around to see, then rolled his eyes heavenward and uttered, "A perfect end to the night."


	6. Chapter 6

A little dicey on accuracy in this chapter. We're mostly making stuff up about the fine town of Tombstone, although we mixed in a little accuracy just to keep you guessing.

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* * *

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Chapter 6

Dean awoke to the soft rhythmical sound of Sam tapping at the computer keys and groaned inwardly.

_More research_.

He'd known it was coming after the disastrous graveyard foray last night, the unexpected appearance of _three _ghosts when they had only banked on one. But first thing in the morning? Before coffee? That seemed excessive.

He kept his eyes closed, kept his breathing even and aimed to defer his involvement for a little while. With any luck, Sam would shortly have a eureka moment and the research would be complete by the time he 'woke up'.

"I know you're awake."

Dean cursed silently.

"You suck at playing possum, you might want to remember that for the future."

Sam sounded a little peeved, a little insulted that Dean thought he could get away with the act and it pricked Dean's defenses, made him want to argue _I do not suck at it, I just didn't commit to it early enough, _but he didn't even have his eyes open yet and that would not be an auspicious start the day.

"And a good morning to you," he grumbled instead.

He yawned, stretched and felt the sting of the gash low in his back. Sam had slipped a few stitches into it when they had returned last night, the butterfly tape not holding up to the night's activities, the wound reopening, leaking blood.

"I think I know who two of the ghosts are."

Dean's lazy warm up came to an abrupt end. He snapped upright, fingers running through his hair to settle the unruliness.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. Come look at this."

Dean padded over to where his brother sat at the small breakfast table, barely large enough to contain the laptop. He jostled Sam a little, shouldered him aside, so that he could view the screen, and Sam clicked his tongue but ceded some space.

There was a photo of a man on the screen in scratchy black and white and Dean recognized him as the second male apparition that had appeared the previous night, the last of the three.

He let out a low whistle when he read the name.

"Ed Schiefflin? The guy who founded the town? He's one of the apparitions?" He looked at Sam for confirmation, making sure he had identified correctly.

Sam eyebrows flickered in surprise at Dean knowing who Ed Scheifflin was. Then he remembered that the name had come up in his brother's research.

"Looks like."

"How did you figure that one out?"

Sam reached under his chair and picked up the tourist booklet he had been reading when they arrived in town.

"I thought I recognized him at the cemetery, so I looked in here and bingo, there he was…the founder of Tombstone."

Dean ran a hand along the nape of his neck. This hadn't really arisen before, a spirit who was _someone_, a historical figure. He wasn't thrilled about it. It felt like a complication. It felt like something that was going to make the job harder, he just wasn't sure how.

Sam tapped a few keys and pulled up another picture

Dean read the caption underneath then dipped his chin, "That's no real surprise. We knew Tranter was involved."

"So that just leaves the woman," Sam pronounced. "I'm still trying to figure out who she is. I was hoping the scar on her face would make her easy to identify but not so far."

Dean looked at him blankly.

"Big scar? Left cheek?"

Dean did a quick replay of the night's events in his mind and when it came to the female apparition he remembered scrambling, shooting, a little bit of panicking, but he was hazy on the physical detail. She hadn't attacked _him_ (if you could call the booming plea an attack) she'd attacked Sam and Dean hadn't paused to take notes.

Sam shook his head in feigned disgust, because he knew that's what Dean would do to him if he missed a distinguishing feature. "Anyway. She had a scar on her left cheek, so I'm trying to search for scarred women in Tombstone in the late 1800s but I'm not having much luck, I haven't found anything yet."

Dean pursed his lips as he considered the problem, then without a word moved away from Sam, picked up his cell phone, scrolled through the contacts and initiated a call.

Sam frowned, wondering who his brother could possibly be calling to help identify a spirit that only the two of them had seen.

Dean slowly paced as he waited for the call to be answered, then stopped dead and shot Sam a look of wide eyed astonishment. Sam had no idea what it signified.

"Fuckface?" Dean barked into the phone. "You always greet your callers like that Ada?"

His eyes left Sam and wandered absently around the room. After a few moments he chuckled. "You know, that's the second time you've used the _I thought you were Maud_ excuse with me. Is there something you're trying to tell me?" There was a pause then a sharp laugh, "Not many people could get away with saying that. I'm not sure that _you're_ going to get away with saying that. You'd better watch your back lady."

Sam smiled. He liked that Ada teased Dean, there was an intimacy to it, a depth to the relationship that was uncommon. She seemed to have a grasp on how to handle Dean with both playfulness and authority. Maybe that was because of her own son, she had experience dealing with a complex, bruised character. It was a similar relationship to the one Dean had with Ellen, but with more humor and less intimidation.

"Hang on a minute, I've got Sam with me, I'm going to switch you to speaker."

Dean pressed a button on his cellphone and Sam jumped from his seat and moved to where his brother stood, wanting to be close to the receiver, even if it was on speaker. Dean held the phone between them and asked, "Can you hear me?"

"Loud and clear fuckface."

"I thought we established that I _wasn't_ the fuckface."

Laughter rang out of the phone.

"Hi Ada," Sam greeted.

"Hiya sweetie."

"Oh what?" Dean exclaimed with mock indignation. "I'm fuckface and he's sweetie."

There was renewed laughter down the phone line. "Deal with it fucker."

Sam snorted and Dean cocked an unimpressed eyebrow.

When Ada's laughter died down she asked, "So what is it you need? You boys alright?" There was a sudden seriousness to Ada's tone as it occurred to her that maybe something was wrong.

"We're fine Ada," Dean responded, "just need to pick your brains for a minute."

"Oh god," came the reply and Sam could imagine an eye roll accompanying the groan.

"Don't worry, it's not rocket science. We'd be calling Maud if it was something hard." Ada exhaled a breath that was equal parts amusement and umbrage and Dean continued, "Listen, do you know of any women in the late 1800s who had a prominent scar on their face?"

"Oh Christ, a history lesson," Ada mumbled. "Can it wait until Maud gets home, she's better at that sort of thing."

"You can't think of anyone?" Dean pressed.

"Alright impatient, let me think." The phone went quiet. After a few moments Ada suddenly exclaimed, "Oh! What about Madame Moustache. You heard of her?"

The brothers exchanged a look that revealed neither had. "No," Sam answered. "Who is she?"

"She ran gambling houses back in the day. Very successful, very shrewd woman, but she was knifed by a drunken loser one night, left her with a scar on her cheek."

Sam raised his eyebrows at his brother and uttered quietly, "That sounds about right."

Dean didn't acknowledge the comment, his forehead was deeply wrinkled as he repeated, "Madame Moustache?" like the words didn't make sense. "The woman had a moustache?"

"Apparently."

Dean's gaze slid to his brother, his eyes asking the question_ did last night's female spirit have a moustache? _"Like a full on, twirl around your finger moustache?" Dean sought to clarify.

Ada laughed. "I don't think she was the bearded lady or anything, she wasn't a circus freak. Some women have noticeable hair on their top lip. Not me of course. But Maud, shit, you should see her before a waxing, whiskers from hell."

Both boys wrinkled their nose in distaste.

"Madame moustache huh?" Dean was looking at Sam as he said the words and the younger brother shrugged his shoulders in response, _could be_ implied. "Did she have any connection to the funeral parlor?"

"I don't know," Ada answered. "Not that I know of."

"Okay. Well, we'll try and find a photo of Madame Furface, see if it's the woman we saw last night."

There was a pause and Dean realized his mistake, kicked himself for inadvertently revealing something about what they'd been up to. And even though the women knew more about their business than most people and had shown themselves to be allies, he still wasn't comfortable getting into a conversation that could include the admission _we were out desecrating graves at a historical landmark last night._

"Last night? Where the hell were you last night?"

"Nowhere," Dean said quickly. "A strip club. Nothing you need to hear about."

"Uh-huh." The skepticism was clear in Ada's voice. "You saw Madam Moustache in a strip club?" She waited a beat for a response and when none was forthcoming, she huffed and asked, "Were you careful? In the _strip club_? Did anyone suffer an unfortunate injury?"

Dean laughed. The idea of someone suffering an unfortunate injury at a strip club was pretty funny, some wild possibilities sprang to mind.

"No injuries. But Sam had his sensibilities offended. He's such a sensitive boy."

_Shut up _Sam mouthed and smacked him on the arm, puzzled by his brother's need to persevere in the lie and insult him unnecessarily. Dean smacked him back, then skipped away to avoid a return. He pressed the button to take the phone off speaker and finished the call in a rush, "Thanks Ada, you've been a great help," then stood facing his brother with a smile on his face and a _bring it on_ stance.

The brother's regarded each other adversarily, primed for a wrestling match, but then Sam stood down, took the high road before things got out of hand, and returned to his seat in front of the computer. His fingers flew over the keys, paused, and he pronounced, "Ada was right. It was Madame Moustache we saw last night. Real name, Eleanor Dumont."

Dean hesitantly drew up behind him, not sure if there was a truce between them, eyes flitting between the computer screen and Sam. When he viewed the photo his brother had found, satisfied it was the woman they had seen at the graveyard last night, he breathed, "Okay," and took a few steps out of his brother's reach, still wary. "So we know who the three spirits are. Now how do we get rid of them?"

Sam leaned back in the chair and laced his fingers behind his head as he considered the question. "I guess we need to find their connection. There must be a reason they're appearing together. Maybe if we can find the connection we can figure out how to separate them so we can do the salt and burn."

"Yeah okay," Dean agreed, pressing his lips together. He felt a flush of annoyance that this 'simple' job had turned into something complex. It was supposed to be a time filler. Identify the ghost, easy salt and burn, thank you for coming, onto the next thing. He didn't know why jobs never seemed to work out that way. Easy seemed to be hard to find.

Dean's thoughts were interrupted by a suggestion from Sam. "Why don't we head down to the Tombstone Epitaph and look for reports about the murder of Tranter's children, see where that leads us."

The enthusiasm in his voice, the sparkle in his eyes, told Dean that his brother had more than a professional interest in visiting the vintage newspaper. He hadn't forgotten Sam lingering at the storefront, peering into the windows on their first day walk around. This was a _two birds with one stone_ suggestion. This was Sam seizing an opportunity to try and further the case whilst visiting a historical site he was keen to view.

Dean rolled his eyes. He didn't particularly want to indulge his brother's nerdish tendencies, but the suggestion did hold merit. They'd gotten as much information as they could from the library so newspaper archives was a natural progression.

"Ok…we'll go," Dean conceded, adding with a jab of his finger, "but no disappearing off to stroke the old machines or make out with ancient headlines. This is business, you can indulge your geekboy fantasies on your own time."

Sam's enthusiasm dwindled a little. The way his eyebrows dipped at the phrase _on your own time_ made Dean think he was going to take issue, raise an argument that he was never on his own time. But he didn't. His countenance cleared and he accepted the terms with a slight smile and nod of the head which made Dean suspect his brother was going to indulge his geekboy fantasies whether it was authorized or not.

The boys quickly showered and exited the motel, stopping at a café for a hasty breakfast before making their way to the Tombstone Epitaph. Sam tried to modulate his steps, tried not to race to their intended destination, but as they got closer, when the storefront came into view his strides increased in pace and he reached the door with his brother yards behind, then tapped his foot impatiently as he waited for Dean to catch up.

Dean chuckled. It was kind of endearing seeing Sam so boyishly excited. It reminded him of Sam in high school, how keen he was attend, how eager he was to learn. Dean had never understood it but he always enjoyed seeing it. It was nice that despite the job, their unconventional lives, the tragedies of the past few years, Sam remained in essence the same kid, that it shone through every now and again.

Dean slowed his pace, dawdled toward his brother and delighted in the aggravation that flooded Sam's face.

They ducked into the Epitaph, an innocuous looking white washed storefront located at one end of the main street and Sam immediately veered right, toward vintage equipment displayed near the large windows while Dean sauntered further inside, surreptitiously checking out the place and the only person within view, a woman in her late thirties standing behind the counter engrossed in some paperwork. She unhurriedly lifted her gaze as Dean approached, then smiled sweetly as her eyes raked him up and down.

"Morning," she greeted. "You looking for a tour of the place?"

There was the sharp scrape of boot twisting on wood and without even looking Dean knew Sam had turned at the question, was hoping to hear a yes in answer.

"Maybe later," Dean hedged, with a twinge of guilt at disappointing his brother, knowing that _maybe_ was realistically a no, that he didn't have the patience for a tour.

"Then what can I do for you?" she prompted amiably.

Dean's eyes flashed to the name badge pinned to her chest and with an engaging smile he said, "Anne, my brother and I are historical detectives." He ignored the way her brows drew down, her eyes narrowed dubiously and continued, "We heard about an unsolved murder a hundred years ago that might be right up our alley and we thought we'd come down and find out what might have been reported in the paper at the time."

"Historical detectives?" she echoed, making sure she'd heard right.

"Yep."

It probably had more to do with the dialed up smile than a belief in the cover story that the woman said slowly, "Okay. What murder are you talking about?"

"Couple of young girls, Madeline and Elizabeth Tranter. Killed around 1889."

"Oh right," Anne's eyes widened as her memory was stirred. "I think I remember reading about them." She stood up and flicked a lock behind the counter which allowed a hidden door to open. "Little girls were shot to death weren't they?"

"That's right," Dean confirmed and took the opening of the counter as an invitation to walk through. Sam quickly crossed the room to follow.

"Yeah," her focus drifted as she searched her mind for more details. "They were really young, like 7 and 5 or something. And they were kidnapped and found dead." She raised an eyebrow at Dean, not sure if she was on the right track. He nodded, didn't correct her and she shook her head sadly. "That's awful stuff. It should never happen, not even in the wild west."

"Can't argue with you there," Dean agreed somberly.

Anne walked the boys to the back room of the Epitaph, an expansive space floor to ceiling with filing cabinets.

"So this is the filing room," she introduced with a flourish of her hand Price is Right style. "We have every edition of the paper stored here, starting from 1880. They're in chronological order, so if you know the date of the newspaper you're looking for it won't be too hard to find. They start at the top left," she pointed at the farther left cabinet, "and run down by date then back up to the top of the next cabinet."

She gave the boys an awkward half smile and dropped her gaze to the floor as she considered how to proceed, whether she should stay with them, whether their was a security problem leaving them here. She drew in a breath, clapped her hands and raised her eyes to the men, decision apparently made. "Okay then. Good luck. I hope you find what you're looking for. If you need any help I'm right outside."

She moved toward the door and with her hand on the knob, paused and turned toward them. "So is this a job or a hobby?"

"We don't get paid for it," Sam offered, aware that it didn't really answer the question.

"And if you figure out who killed the girls what happens then?"

"We let the police know," Sam replied, "show them the evidence we found. They may still have a file on the matter." He shrugged mildly, like what came after was out of their hands.

She nodded at the explanation, gave the brothers a warm, understanding smile, and Sam felt both relieved that she was buying into the front and terrible that they had duped her so convincingly.

"Don't you mess up this filing system," were her last words as she left the room.

Dean walked over to the left cabinet, flattened his palm against the metal and let out a heavy sigh. _More research. _This job was setting new lows for research.

Sam drew beside him, patted his shoulder sympathetically, and pulled out a chest height drawer that was labeled 1885-1890.

Paper was wedged tight in the space, stuck into long held angles. Sam gingerly pried pages apart, looking to find papers from 1889 but froze at the sound of ripping and shot a horrified look at his brother.

"You're not destroying the historical records are you Sam?" Dean grinned.

Sam pursed his lips unhappily and withdrew his hand from the drawer. "Maybe you'd like to try?" he challenged.

Dean reached in and pulled out everything in the drawer in one large, solid bulk, dropping it onto the floor with a thud that pained Sam. The older Winchester knelt over the mound and gently pulled at the right corner edge, opening a gap about a quarter of the way down the stack, then slipped his hand between two pages and slowly worked his way from the top to the bottom prising apart the paper. He lifted the top of the stack clear from the pile with a triumphant look at Sam and deposited it behind him, out of the way.

"You just need to show some care," Dean condascended. "These papers are like delicate flowers."

"Yeah, yeah," Sam grumbled.

Using that careful method they located the editions for 1889. It became increasingly tedious separating pages to find the March 9 edition of that year, but their efforts were rewarded when the front page of that paper carried an article describing the sorry circumstances surrounding the disappearance and discovery of the girls. Shoulder to shoulder, the brothers read how the girls, aged five and eight, had been playing outside their house, in the care of a friend while their father was at work, and vanished when the carer went inside to prepare afternoon tea. A search was conducted and the bodies were found that evening two miles away, poorly concealed under shrubs, shot through the heart.

Sam was almost moved to tears by how tenderly and emotively the article had been written, how powerfully the scene was described without being graphic or macabre. If anything sexual had occurred there was no mention of it in the article and he really wanted to believe that the girls hadn't suffered in that way, but he couldn't help wonder about the motivation for kidnapping two little girls, couldn't help but draw the worst conclusion. And he felt a deep revulsion at the crime, at the sort of person who could do such a thing to two innocent girls, he understood why Joseph Tranter was so tortured in death, unable to find peace.

The brothers exchanged sober expressions when they reached the end of the article.

"Poor bastard," Dean said. "I almost feel bad about filling him with rock salt last night."

"Yeah," Sam agreed quietly.

Dean narrowed his eyes. "You're not going to cry are you?"

Sam gave him a withering look.

They continued the painful process of pulling apart the leaves of newspaper, trying to find follow up articles, reports of progress in the investigation. It was frustrating hours spent reading through the pages without reward. When they were scanning editions of the paper a year after the initial report they agreed not to read on any further, the likelihood of finding relevant articles was too remote and time consuming. To be sure they hadn't missed anything they returned to the March 9 edition and closely read each paper up to three months after, confirming that there was no follow up article to the initial report in that time.

It was baffling that such a sensational double murder would be so quickly dismissed, forgotten. Certainly life back then was cheap, people died with alarming regularity, but two young girls being killed in such circumstances was unusual, and Sam would have expected the public to demand justice, to want to be kept informed of progress.

It was weird.

But then, it was a different time. He didn't really know how society worked in the late 1800s. Maybe people didn't want to be reminded of such incidents, or maybe reporters just didn't do follow up stories back then.

With a yawn and a stretch the brothers carefully stacked the pages on top of each, Sam a little more careful about the order of dates than Dean was, and returned the papers to the appropriate cabinet. They traced their way back to the entrance of the building where they once again encountered Anne.

"Find what you were looking for?" she brightly enquired.

"Not really," Dean answered wearily. "We found the initial report of the murders and then nothing else. And I mean _nothing._"

"That's a shame," she commiserated. "I have heard that William Bonner, the original owner of the Epitaph, kept a very firm grip on what was reported. Not so much freedom of the press back then. Maybe there was a reason for keeping it all hush hush."

Dean looked at her doubtfully. What possible reason could there be for keeping a murder investigation hush hush? "Yeah, maybe," he agreed half heartedly.

"You should speak to Steve Tranter at the museum," she suggested. "He knows a lot about a lot when it comes to this town. And I think he's a distant relative of those girls. I'm pretty sure that Joseph Tranter is his great, great, great whatever uncle or something so he may have an inside running."

Sam's eyes lit up, he looked at Dean as if the woman had just suggested something that was ten kinds of fun, something they'd be crazy _not_ to do and Dean groaned. Sam was going to insist they head to the museum as soon as they walked out the door. All this research, all this history, was going to kill Dean, he was going to waste away and die of boredom.

He shook his head in despair, gave Anne a wan smile and left Sam to obtain directions to the museum while he waited outside. They compromised about heading straight over there, agreeing to a short interlude at a diner to unwind and refuel, before walking the brief distance to their next destination.

The museum was surprisingly small. Dean snorted when he saw it. "That's not a museum, that's a…" his sentence trailed off.

"What?" Sam prodded.

"Dog kennel?" Dean responded half heartedly, and at the puzzled look on Sam's face shook his head ruefully. "Yeah, I thought something would come to me. It's pretty small is what I was getting at. How much junk could they fit in there?"

Sam was pretty sure the word _junk _was intended to rile him.

"I'm sure they cram it real tight," Sam replied and Dean frowned at the sarcasm, finding it uncharacteristic from his brother, a little disconcerting.

Sam pushed open the door, took a few steps inside and stopped to get his bearings. The museum comprised one large room with white painted walls, a dark hard wood floor, and glass cabinets that stretched to the ceiling along the edges of the room, with waist height glass cabinets in the centre, creating a walkway that could only be navigated single file.

Dean paused at Sam's left shoulder, surveying the interior. It was an Aladdin's cave of artifacts, mementos and curios. The displays had been efficiently designed to maximize space and all items were accompanied by neatly typed notes.

The words _they cram it real tight_ echoed in Dean's mind and he chuckled quietly to himself at Sam's unintentionally appropriate comment.

A dark haired man not much older than themselves, regaled in authentic looking 19th century cowboy gear, most strikingly a suede fringed vest, entered the museum from a door in the back, his boots knocking loudly against the timber as he approached. He smiled warmly at the two visitors.

"Howdy guys. Welcome to the Tombstone Museum, take your time and enjoy. If you have any questions don't hesitate to ask."

Sam returned the smiled. He felt a real appreciation for how friendly the townsfolk were, they'd been to places where that wasn't the case, where strangers were greeted with suspicious hostility.

"Howdy" replied Sam.

Dean coughed at his brother's use of the lingo and moved a few steps away to disassociate himself. Sam took no notice and continued, "I'm Sam, this is my brother Dean."

"Hi, I'm Steve, nice to meet you."

There was a polite exchange of hands, which Dean participated in.

"Anne from the Epitaph pointed us in your direction," Sam explained. "We've been researching Joseph Tranter and Anne said he was a distant relative of yours."

The man smiled. "You mean funeral parlor Uncle Joseph?"

"Catchy name," Dean interjected and wandered past to peer into the cabinets.

Sam shot an exasperated look at his brother's back then returned to Steve with a nod. "Yeah. We read about what happened to his daughters and my brother and I are kind of amateur detectives, we try and solve historical crimes."

"Historical detectives Sam," Dean corrected. "We're historical detectives." He smirked at his brother's thinly veiled annoyance and returned his attention to the display cabinets.

"Right," Sam agreed through gritted teeth.

Small town like this, it made sense to use the same cover story wherever they went, as strangers in town there was a possibility of being mentioned in conversation, discussed, and spreading around conflicting accounts of themselves would be a quick way to create suspicion. And Sam was following the lead set by Dean with Anne at the Epitaph, he was describing themselves to the museum worker as detectives of historical incidents, but there was no reason why he had to use the exact same wording.

It was just Dean being bored. Dean amusing himself. Dean pushing his luck.

Steve accepted the cover story with barely a flicker, which Sam found amazing considering Dean's obnoxious behavior. The museum employee seemed intrigued. He raised his eyebrows and pressed his lips together like he was impressed by the title, historical detectives.

Emboldened, Sam launched into the reason for their visit. "We found a report on the disappearance and discovery of Joseph's little girls in the Epitaph, but then found nothing else about it. Anne thought maybe you might have some inside knowledge into what happened."

"Gee, I don't know how much help I can be," Steve contended modestly. "It all happened well before my time..."

As Steve spoke, Sam's eyes skipped to Dean who was almost directly behind the museum man, bending at the hips to look closely into the display cabinets, apparently enthralled by what he was viewing. Sam felt a thrum of dissatisfaction at his brother's lack of concentration, his failure to follow the conversation. But what bugged him most was Dean's rapt attention on the historical items. It was wrong. It was unfair. Dean shouldn't be taking _pleasure_ in the museum, not while Sam was focused on the job. Dean didn't even like museums, he had complained heartily about coming. It should be him conducting the interview and Sam delighting in the history

Dean's head suddenly snapped around. He caught Sam's gaze and quirked his eyebrows, straightened and moved to join the pair, to participate in the conversation. Sam realized with dismay that Dean _had_ been listening, _had_ been paying attention and Steve had just revealed something important which Sam had missed because he had been distractedly focused on his brother's lack of attention.

He cringed inwardly as he was forced to ask, "I'm sorry, what did you just say?"

Steve amiably replied, "I was just saying, it's kind of an open secret what happened to those girls."

And Sam understood his brother's sudden interest in the conversation.

"What happened to them?" he breathed.

"Well you won't find it in the paper, it was all hushed up, but within the family it was quite well known who killed Joseph's daughters."

"Who?" the brothers asked as one.

The intensity of interest made the museum guide falter. His smile slipped and he looked a little nervous. "_Apparently_," the emphasise was meaningful, a qualification, "it was a guy called Ted Bonner. He was the brother of one of the town big wigs back in the day."

"How do you know that?" Dean demanded and Sam thought he could have been a little more tactful, it almost sounded like an accusation.

"_Apparently,_ there was some evidence that linked the murders to Bonner."

"You know what the evidence was?" Dean persisted.

"Nah," Steve scoffed. "It all happened a hundred years ago so the story is getting a little thin."

The brothers exchanged a look. Dean's mouth tightened in frustration. Reliable information was hard to come by in this matter. How much trust could be placed in a century old word of mouth?

"Could you tell us everything you know about Joseph?" Sam asked.

Steve scratched his head. "I don't know a lot. I mean he died eighty years before I was born. And what I do know is kind of hearsay and conjecture."

The museum guide chuckled and was surprised when the brothers waited expectantly for him to continue, undeterred by the admission that his knowledge was unreliable.

"Just tell us what you've heard," Sam gently encouraged.

Steve pulled his bottom lip between his teeth and took a few moments to silently search his mind for material about his long deceased relative.

"Well, I got the impression that Joseph was a good guy. Loved his wife, loved his daughters. He moved to Tombstone in the very early days of the town, looking for a decent income to support the family. I don't think it was even a year after they arrived that his wife died giving birth to their second child. There was talk of him moving back east but, I don't know, he decided not to for some reason."

The guide's forehead furrowed as he dug deep for more information. There was a long pause, he seemed stuck for detail.

"So the girls were killed…," Sam prompted.

Steve picked up the thread. "Yeah. And they were young." He shook his head grimly. "I don't remember their ages exactly but I know, they were _young_." He paused for a beat, letting the horror of that, of betrayed innocence, settle around them. "Joseph took it badly. I mean," he shrugged, "of course he did. That sort of thing…"

The brothers nodded in agreement. _That sort of thing_ indeed. It was brutal and awful and must have been near impossible for a father to live with.

"Ted Bonner was arrested for the murders..."

Dean's eyebrows flew upward in surprise. "That wasn't reported in the paper," he interrupted.

"Bonner's brother _owned_ the paper," Steve replied. "But the case never made it to court. 'Evidentiary irregularities.'" Steve's fingers worked the inverted commas and his tone hinted at conspiracy.

"What does that mean?" Dean asked bluntly.

"Evidence went missing. And then not long after, so did Ted Bonner."

"Really?" Dean pursed his lips as he thought about what that implied. "So Ted Bonner went missing _dead _or missing scarpered?"

"Who knows? I think at the time it was assumed he had done a runner, he was a bit of a transient, a bit unreliable, and town feeling was against him."

Dean nodded slowly. "Was he ever heard of again?"

Steve shrugged. "Not in Tombstone. Not that I know of. I mean only an idiot would return, right?"

The levity fell flat and all three men stood lost in thought for a moment, speculating on what might have happened all those years ago. Steve opened his mouth and looked like he was about to add something, but changed his mind and brought his lips together.

"Is there more?" Dean asked.

"Nooo…" The word was hesitantly stretched out, an unconvincing denial.

"Don't flake on us now Steve, we've come this far."

Steve gave a short laugh. "I guess I've already impugned this guy's character, what's a little more, right?"

"There you go," Dean shucked him on the shoulder.

"I seem to recall talk that Ted Bonner may have murdered in other towns." He held up his hands defensively. "Now I can't be sure, so don't quote me on that. It just seems to ring a bell."

"Before the Tranter girls?"

"I think so, yeah."

"In which towns?"

Steve laughed good naturedly at the persistence and folded his arms across his chest. "I don't know, man. I don't know if anything I've told you is true and now you want me to name towns?"

Dean accepted the protest with a smile but slid his gaze to Sam, a slight shift of expression indicating his desire to leave, that in his opinion they had learned all they could from the museum guide.

Sam piped up, "Was Madam Moustache a relative? Did she have anything to do with Joseph?"

Tranter rocked back on his heels with a nod and looked apologetic that he had failed to mention it. "Yeah. She and Joseph were good friends. I don't think they were in a relationship, I think it was more a case of her taking pity on him after his wife died. I think. I mean, I don't really know." He grinned self consciously, then added. "Madam Moustache was the one looking after the girls when they went missing, Joseph was at work."

Dean's eyebrows arched up. That was important. That linked both Madame Moustache and Tranter to the murdered girls. What it meant, how it was relevant, they would figure out later, but that was going to be their starting point.

Sam held out his hand to Steve to draw the interview to a close. "Thank you for your help. You have an incredible memory, you really saved us a lot of time."

The museum guide accepted the hand with a chuckle. "Well talking about it and proving it are two different things, but something salacious in the family history tends to stick. And I hope you fellas can finish the puzzle, find the missing pieces and put this awful crime to bed once and for all."

_I hope so too_ Sam silently agreed.

Dean strode for the door and turned in surprise when he discovered Sam wasn't behind him. He spun on his heel and saw his younger brother strolling around the room, casually peering into the glass display cases.

To the sound of Dean's tapping foot, Sam took in his fill of historical and fascinating items. He felt no remorse at making Dean wait, he considered he was entitled to see some of what Tombstone had to offer, and Dean had copped an eyeful so why shouldn't he.

When he had seen enough, he joined Dean at the entrance and pronounced lightly, "Okay, I'm ready," and they exited the building in the direction of the motel.

**

* * *

**

**A/N: **It's going to be four weeks before we post the next chapter, Alibongo is going on a nice long vacation.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

At the motel room untidiness was beginning to spread. Dean didn't trust maid service, worried that whoever cleaned the room might burrow through his things and either get jumpy or grabby if they found a weapon. So the beds were unmade, dirty clothes were bunched in a corner, unwashed cups sat inside the sink and pages of research were strewn over the small breakfast table.

Dean headed for the kettle while Sam bee-lined for the laptop. When Dean turned and noticed the computer going through its warm up he clicked his tongue and frowned in annoyance.

"Christ Nancy. What more could you possibly need to know?"

He was slouched casually, hip pressed against the melamine countertop but arms folded tight across his chest telegraphed that he was done with the research, unwilling to participate any further.

"Nancy?"

"Drew."

Sam blew out an amused breath. "Not sure what bothers me most, you _calling_ me Nancy Drew or you _knowing_ about Nancy Drew."

"Dude," Dean turned up his palms. "Pamela Sue Martin."

Sam shook his head in confusion. "Pamela Sue… Anderson? I don't get it…"

"Pamela Sue _Martin_."

Dean waited for the clarification to register. When it didn't, when Sam continued to stare at him blankly, he rolled his eyes and muttered, "You have some serious gaps in your tv viewing history. Forget it. It's all good." He nodded at the laptop. "What're you looking for?"

"I'm googling Ted Bonner. See what comes up."

"Right."

Dean turned away, drew a mug out of the cupboard and asked, "Wasn't Ted Bonner an outlaw or something? The name sounds familiar."

"That was William H. Bonney," Sam replied, not surprised by his brother's mistake, the names were similar. "Bonney was Billy the Kid."

"Huh." Dean sniffed. "That would have been pretty cool, chasing after Billy the Kid."

"Yeah," Sam agreed without any real conviction.

With a mug full of coffee in one hand Dean cleared some space at the table by flicking paper onto the floor then sat down opposite his brother. Sam always got so wrapped up in research, the little geek could spend hours staring at the screen, making notes. Dean felt the need to curtail that, motivate his brother to report quickly because he really wasn't in the mood for some in depth examination of the life and times of Ted Bonner. He tapped his fingers in a slow rhythm on the faux wood, reminding Sam he was there, letting him know he was waiting impatiently.

After a few minutes Dean shifted in the chair, curled his hand around the coffee cup and, as he brought the drink to his lips, asked, "You find anything yet?"

"Yep."

"Anything interesting?"

"Sure."

There was a pause and Dean brought the mug back to the table with a questioning eyebrow. "Shall I just sit quietly until you're ready to tell me?"

"Do you think you could?"

Realization dawned, Dean was receiving payback for his nuisance. He asked with mock concern, "Oh, does this bother you?" and tapped his index finger hard against the table top to the rhythm of a tune in his head, smiling innocently at his brother as the seconds drew on.

Sam endured it for less than a minute before breaking with a huff.

"Would you just…." His jaw muscles tightened as he stared at the finger. "If you're that desperate to know, I'll tell you, just stop being such a..." He shook his head in exasperation and glared at Dean. The tapping finger stilled and Dean looking pretty pleased with himself, beamed a triumphant smile which only served to deepen Sam's annoyance. He shifted his eyes down to the laptop, away from his brother's infuriating smugness and breathed deep before reporting, "Ted Bonner was accused of a range of crimes, including murder, over the course of a decade. There aren't many specifics online, it's hard to tell if he was just accused or actually charge with anthing. If he did jail time, it can't have been much because he's accounted for through most of the period. He certainly moved around a lot, setting up businesses in frontier towns, then leaving soon after." Sam caught his brother's eye above the screen. "Which sounds suspicious. Sounds like he had to leave in a hurry. But it's kind of glossed over in the stuff I've read."

Dean nodded thoughtfully. "Okay. Well we don't need to know Ted Bonner intimately. I mean, the spirits at the construction site are Tranter, Scheifflin and the hairy chick, Bonner is kind of a secondary player, the reason for the restlessness."

Sam leaned back in his chair, clasped his hands behind his head and was silent for a moment as he thought through the information. Then decided to muse out loud, "So Tranter is haunting Dave's construction site. He's restless because his kids were murdered and the killer was never caught. He spent most of his working life at the funeral parlor, so, okay, he had a connection to the place, that makes sense."

He darted his eyes to Dean, got a small nod of agreement, and continued, "But at the cemetery he's backed up by two other spirits, Scheifflin, who was his boss, owned the funeral parlor, and Eleanor Dumont who was looking after the kids when they were taken." He paused. "Why are Scheifflin and Dumont involved? I mean, they didn't have the same emotional connection that Tranter did, it wasn't their kids who were murdered. What unfinished business could they have?"

In a continuation of thinking out loud, Dean stated, "Let's assume Ted Bonner did kill those girls. He gets let off at trial then goes missing, never heard of again. Tranter kill him?" He raised his eyebrows to Sam. "Tranter, Scheifflin and Moustache kill him?"

Sam saw the merit in the supposition, how such an act would form a bond between the three. He nodded slowly. "Could be. Although, three people in a murder conspiracy is a lot of people. Hard to keep it a secret."

Dean shrugged noncommittally, not willing to lose momentum pondering the merits of a conspiracy of three. "At the construction site, Tranter is actively trying to prevent work from being done, trying to keep the place in original form."

"We don't know that it's just Tranter," Sam interjected. "Could be all three of them."

Dean nodded an impatient concession. "Whoever it is, they don't want work done on the funeral parlor."

The logical conclusion rolled off Sam's tongue. "Because there's something they don't want found."

"Bonner's body."

There was an electric pause. The brothers stared at each other, sharing the elation of random puzzle pieces falling into place, taking on meaning.

"We have to tell Dave," Sam breathed. "He's going to find a body."

Dean lifted his mug with a wry grin. _Cheers to that._

Sam pushed back from the table, strode to where his phone had been casually dumped by the bedside then rifled through his duffel for the card Dave had given him a few days earlier. As he was about to dial, Dean exclaimed, "Wait."

Sam jerked his head up, saw a troubled expression on his brother's face.

"We're missing something," Dean said slowly, and Sam flicked his phone closed. "_Why _don't the spirits want anybody to find Bonner? I mean what's the big deal? _He's_ dead, _they're_ dead… so what if the bones are uncovered? There's got to be more to it." He regarded his brother thoughtfully, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth. "What if it's like... The Mummy?" he ventured uncertainly.

"We're talking what now?"

Sam had been with his brother all the way, following his train of thought, right up until he decided to offer a theory based on a B-grade movie.

"You know…" Dean shrugged mildly, looking a little embarrassed and Sam thought, _yeah, you should be_. "…in The Mummy a bad guy is killed and buried and to make sure that no one ever digs him up guardians protect the grave."

"Why?"

Sam had seen the movie, thought it was okay, but hadn't retained any of the storyline, never envisioned it being referred to on a job.

"Because they were worried about the bad guy being evil in death. They didn't want his body disturbed."

Dean met his brother's eyes and Sam could see the conviction in his gaze. Dean was committed to the argument, really thought it had merit, even if it was derived from a movie plot.

Sam was dubious. "I don't know, man. I mean… The Mummy? Seriously?"

"It's not about The Mummy, Sam," Dean waved his hand impatiently. "I mean, the movie had obvious plot holes… Forget where it comes from. Dude, it makes sense. Three people kill the guy on the quiet, bury him at the funeral parlor, worry that even in death he might be dangerous so make a pact to guard him."

Dean looked at his brother in earnest, his expression almost demanding support and agreement and Sam couldn't bring himself to give it, had to slide his eyes to the floor.

"I'll look into it," he murmured. "See if there's any lore about something like that."

"Knock yourself out."

It didn't take long for Sam to discover that there was some validity to the theory. There _was _lore about spirits guarding a particular site, or person. There was nothing directly akin to what they were hypothesising in this case, but lore was flexible, capable of being interpreted and derived and the idea of three people guarding the hidden grave of an evil man wasn't ridiculous.

"Let's just say you're right."

Sam picked up the thread of the conversation an hour later without any preface or lead in. He knew Dean would follow.

"Let's just say Tranter, Scheifflin and Dumont killed Bonner and entered into some pact to guard his body. What are we supposed to do about that? We already tried taking out Tranter and it's impossible with the other two keeping him company."

Dean was reclined on the bed, propped against the headboard with pillows at his back. He had a beer in his hand and football on tv and without diverting his attention he answered, "Burn Bonner's bones."

The ease of the response, the immediacy of the answer, was an indication Dean had been quietly considering the matter, figuring out a way forward.

Sam knitted his brow because Dean's simple solution was seriously flawed.

"The guardians won't let us. They're trying to keep Bonner contained. They're physically preventing people from getting too close, no way are they going to let us uncover the bones."

There was a mild shrug in reply.

"And if we do uncover the bones, what is that going to unleash? We'd then have to deal with Bonner as well."

Dean took a swig of beer and just let the counter arguments hang in the air. Which irked Sam. It was typical of his brother to gloss over the negatives.

"There's got to be another way."

"Not that I can think of. Salting and burning Bonner's bones is the way to end this. Once Bonner is neutralized the guardians will have no reason to remain and they'll move on."

Sam chewed his lip, leaned back and stretched against the ache in his spine from sitting too long on an unforgiving chair. He felt dissatisfaction rise within him because he could see that decisions had been made without his input and he railed against the lack of consultation, the expectation that he would just fall into line. But it wasn't like he had an alternate solution. It wasn't particularly helpful arguing against a plan when he had nothing to suggest in its place. And what Dean proposed could actually work. It was problematic. Hugely problematic. The fact that the spirits at the construction site were trying to prevent exactly what Dean was suggesting was going to be their biggest challenge. But salting and burning one corpse to get rid of four spirits would be a great return on investment if they could get it done. And it was a lot simpler than trying to figure out how the three spirits had bound themselves together in the afterlife, and how to separate them.

It just would have been nice to have been consulted.

He let out a resigned sigh.

"We need to talk to Dave," Sam stated.

Dean agreed. But as affable and indebted to them as Dave was, telling a man there was a hidden body on his premises being guarded by up to the three spirits was a big pill to swallow, a mighty test of a flimsy friendship.

"We need some reinforcement," Dean returned and rolled his head to Sam with a quirk of eyebrows.

--

The knock at the door wasn't quite loud enough to penetrate the music blaring into Maud's ears through her Ipod.

"HEY!! DICKBREATH!! DOOR!!"

Ada's hands were overflowing with quilt and cover, halfway through changing out a kingsize duvet. She stood still for a moment, hoping her shout would be answered by the sound of footsteps leading to door, door being opened, visitor being greeted... And cursed under her breath when all she heard was muffled bass and Maud breaking into intermittent song in accompaniment to her private music.

The blonde woman paused indecisively, unsure whether to hastily finish the job at hand or abandon the task and attend to the door. She grabbed a handful of the comforter and shoved it into the cover but another insistent knock made her drop the duvet in a fit of temper into a heap on the floor and stalk out of the room.

As she stomped to the entrance, Ada unleashed a glare of doom from the hallway in the direction of Maud, who was jigging in the lounge room as she dusted, completely oblivious to the knocking and to her friend's irritation.

Ada jerked opened the door, startling Dean in spectacular fashion. He had drawn the conclusion that the ladies weren't home and propped himself against the wood while he scrolled through his phone looking for their number. When his support was unexpectedly pulled away he fell into the house, stumbling over the threshold as he flailed for balance. He tried to hop-step around the diminutive blonde but didn't have the control and his shoulder caught her square in the chest, knocking her backward and flat on her ass, the contact actually steadying Dean, the opposing force keeping him upright and with a few quick steps he found his equilibrium.

"Jesus Christ Dean," the Brit complained breathlessly, "you want to buy me dinner before you get me horizontal?"

Dean blushed. His eyes were wide with concern as he offered a heartfelt apology and bent down to help her to a stand.

"You alright?" he asked as she gingerly brushed herself down.

Ada gave him a sour look. "I was hit by an elephant."

"More like a gazelle," Dean lightly corrected.

"Clumsy gazelle," she muttered.

Dean's mouth twitched like he was going to retort, but he thought the better of it and kept his witty rejoinder to himself.

Sam was biting his lip to keep from laughing and Ada glared at him, then broke into a grin. She'd seen enough Funniest Home Videos to know that people getting knocked over was funny, she was able to see the humor and laugh at herself.

She gestured the boys inside, then motioned to them to hang back while she walked over to Maud who had hips swaying, doing more dancing than housework. Ada shook her head as she approached, turned to the boys and stage whispered, "And she says _I'm_ bad..."

She flexed her fingers, then prodded Maud hard in the side. Maud let out a surprised yelp and yanked the earphones out of her ears while she fumbled for the controls tucked in her pocket.

"Bloody hell Ada, gentle tap when you want me. Gentle tap. Not skeleton fingers. Nobody likes skeleton fingers."

Ada flicked her eyes toward the boys and Maud stilled in horror when she saw them. A crimson blush crept across her face, mortified at having been sprung dancing.

Ada picked up one of the earphones and put it to her ear, her head bobbing along in time to the music. She grinned at Maud "At least your taste in music is WAY better than the way you dance chicken."

"It's better than your barnyard dancing," Maud retorted quietly, not wanting to make a scene but on the defensive, annoyed at the set up.

"You wish you could do line dancing," Ada replied evenly. "That takes skill. And stop calling it barnyard dancing, it's fucking insulting."

"Oh and you didn't just insult me."

"Well you dance like Quasimodo, what do you want me to say, you're Britney Spears?"

"How about you don't draw attention to it when we have guests?"

"How about you don't do it when we have guests?"

"Well I didn't know we had guests..."

Sam coughed, interrupting the back and forth and immediately the bickering stopped.

"We were wondering if we could have a chat," he stated. "You may be able to help us with something."

"Yeah," the women chorused, and that easily the argument was dropped.

Maud led Dean and Sam into the kitchen and the three of them sat down around the table while Ada switched on the kettle then grabbed two beers out of the fridge for the boys. When she had quickly made tea for herself and Maud, she sat in the chair next to her companion and prompted, "Okay. Dazzle us. Tell us what you found out."

And that anticipation, that expectation that all would be revealed, was deeply unsettling to Dean, it was a deja vu of the last time he had been in this house discussing the job. He could almost hear his father warning_ don't involve outsiders. _Suddenly he had second thoughts about telling the women what they knew, about seeking their assistance, there was an ingrained wrongness to it.

_Never trust outsiders. Rely on no-one but yourself._ _Don't tell anyone your business._

They _could_ do the job without the women, bypass them completely and go direct to Dave, or even bypass Dave and move to the end zone in the still of the night. There was no reason for them to be sitting in the kitchen of a couple of eccentrics discussing their business, it involved a level of trust that Dean had been instructed not to bestow.

But he found that he _wanted _to involve them. He liked the idea of allies, he liked the idea of supporters, he liked the idea of people wanting to assist. And he liked the idea that it was more than just him and Sam. They relied on each other so heavily, bore such heavy burdens, there was something liberating about moving beyond that duopoly.

He felt an affection for these two women that made him a little unsteady, a little uncertain. Their age and maternal qualities beckoned his inner child, made him want to confide and rely, and at the same time, for that exact reason, it made him want to keep them at arm's length. They felt like they could be family, the interaction was so natural and easy, and it left him with the push pull of wanting to involve them and the concern that he was involving them too much.

Sam was staring at him, looking for cues and able to read that just because Dean was silent, didn't mean he should start talking.

Dean took a moment to find his resolve, assure himself that this was the right thing to do, then cleared his throat and announced, "We think we know what's going on at the construction site."

He paused for a second, trying to figure out how to condense what they knew, not wanting to engage in a long winded explanation.

"And? Jesus wept Dean, spit it out!" cried Ada

Dean growled, "Give me a fucking chance and I will."

Ada blinked in surprise.

Sam's lips rounded in a silent O as he shifted his gaze uncomfortably to his hands. Dean was uptight about something, Sam couldn't quite guess at the root of it, but in the past dropping a clanger before middle aged ladies would have resulted in a clip over the ear, their father was big on showing respect to women. And even though Ada had dropped the F bomb a few times herself and was hardly going to be offended by it, Sam still acutely felt the breach in manners, holding your tongue in female company was a long held and well disciplined family rule.

Dean, for his part, was immediately contrite. "Sorry. Sorry about that," he uttered, with a raise of his hand and a disgusted shake of his head. "My mouth gets away from me sometimes."

"Look who you're talking to," Maud chuckled.

"Yeah, I've said way worse. I could make a sailor blush. I have made sailors blush," Ada said, sounding proud of the fact. "So get over yourself."

Dean smiled, appreciating the easy let off but made sure to exercise due care with his language as he went on to recite what they had discovered, with Sam filling in the gaps, about the link between Tranter, Scheifflin and Madame Moustache, the nasty history of Ted Bonner, and their suspicions that Bonner was buried at the funeral parlor being guarded by one or all of the spirits.

When they finished the factual part of the narrative, Dean raised the idea that perhaps the girls could accompany them to the construction site and help them persuade Dave that they needed to locate, then salt and burn the hidden bones on his premises.

Ada gave a wry grin at the suggestion. "So you want us to come with you to see Dave, explain that you two lovely lads hunt ghosts and things that go bump in the night and suggest that he should let you tear up the place so you can stop the disruption to the site?"

Sam grimaced. "Yep, that's basically it."

Maud darted her eyes to Ada and said quietly, "Dave's going to flip."

Ada shrugged. "I dunno. I think Dave will be willing to try anything to stop the accidents. Or he'll just think we're even crazier then he suspected and that's no biggie. The worst that could happen is he tells us to get the hell out."

_No, the worst that could happen is he calls the cops_, Dean thought to himself.

Ada regarded Dean. "So how the hell are you going to find the body of Bonner? You planning to dig up all the flooring at the construction site, cos I think Dave might have a slight problem with _that._"

"We've got it covered," replied Dean dismissively.

"Oh god, why don't I feel reassured by that?" Ada quipped.

Sam chuckled. Ada was spot on with her assumption that an overconfident Dean was a reason to be nervous.

"No seriously," Dean continued uncertainly, not sure if she genuinely disbelieved him or was just giving him a hard time. "We've got a sonar detector and it's awesome at finding unmarked graves."

"So you're gonna do a bit of a Time Team thingy in the funeral parlor to find the body then?" asked Ada with a smile.

Three blank faces stared at her.

"Time Team?" Ada repeated, her smile slipping. "Tony Robinson? Black Adder? Oh never mind…it sounded funnier in my head. So when do you want to go and speak to Dave?"

Dean broke into a telling grin.

"You want to do it right now, don't you?" Ada said flatly, her words tinged with disbelief. "Jeez, you don't mind throwing your weight around."

"We need to sort this out quickly," Dean reasoned. "The sooner we talk to Dave the sooner we can get to work. You don't want anymore accidents on site, right? You don't want the blood of some poor innocent shmoe on your hands."

Ada raised her hand. "Yeah, yeah, protect the shmoes, alright."

The group collectively pushed themselves up from the table and Ada noticed Maud trying to stifle a grin.

"What are you smiling at Doogus?"

Maud's forehead wrinkled at the strange insult, Ada obviously trying out something new, but rather than take issue she replied, "This is going to be one hell of an interesting conversation. Dave is either going to believe us and be on board, or we'll all be sleeping in a padded cell tonight."

Ada nodded with a slight smile and said thoughtfully, "I'd better put on some lipstick. I want to look good for the nuthouse."

--

As the four of them picked their way through the construction site, Maud gave an involuntary shiver. The place had been creepy before in the context of its history, but now, the thought that there was a murderous pedophile buried somewhere on the premises added a whole new layer of macabre to the building. It made Maud afraid, not just nervous but afraid. The place now held a blemish of evil and she seemed to feel it all around her, something dark and sinister lurking in the corners.

She was somewhat amazed at how absolutely she believed in the Winchester boys. She'd only known them a few days. And the things they had said, about their experiences, about what they thought was going on at the construction site, were…bizarre frankly. Every time she thought about it rationally she felt a well of panic, because these brothers weren't exactly normal. But still she trusted them. She had witnessed odd things at the construction site with her own eyes and the explanations they gave were reasonable in the circumstances. In themselves the boys seemed like genuine, earnest, good men and she was convinced that they meant well, they honestly wanted to make the construction site safe.

Maud walked through the building in close step to Ada. At times their arms touched and that wasn't incidental, Maud needed physical reassurance, a sense of togetherness, otherwise she might have turned around and walked out.

Hearing the footsteps, Dave ducked his head out of a room nearby. He was surprised to see the four and made his way over to them with a furrow in his brow.

Dean stepped forward, holding out a friendly hand and Dave grasped it with a cautious smile.

"Is this a social visit or should I be worried?"

There was a slight pause before Dean answered cryptically, "Little bit of both."

Ada piped up, "Have you got somewhere we can all sit Dave? We've got something pretty important to discuss with you, but it would be better if you were sitting down."

Dave looked slightly panicked, automatically assuming the visit had something to do with the unfortunate accident of a few nights ago. His eyes flicked to Dean and he held his breath for a moment, waiting for the word _lawyer_ or _compensation _or any derivative of _payment_ to drop from his mouth_._

But Dean maintained a pleasant smile. He wasn't going to be starting any conversations in the hallway. Tradesmen were working nearby, sauntering past and he didn't want unauthorized ears hearing his business. He was already looking at a five way conversation, which had to be some sort of record for him, he had no interest in expanding upon that number.

Maud touched the manager's arm and reassured quietly, "Don't panic, you're not being sued. Just keep an open mind."

That didn't exactly buoy Dave. Needing an open mind couldn't be leading anywhere good. With a quick check of his watch and a split second debate about whether he should plead out of the conversation on the grounds of being too busy, he reluctantly gestured the four into the room that served as his office.

Sam surveyed the room as they entered, taking in the dimensions and features out of habit. It was a small space, white and sterile, the fading smell of paint lingering in the air but his eyes widened as he focused on the room's dominant feature. _Was that a mortuary slab in the middle of the room?_ What at first appeared to be an oversized desk, almost buried beneath haphazardly tossed drawings and accounts, was on closer inspection a concrete slab jutting out of the ground. Dave was using as a workspace an area that had probably seen hundreds of corpses lain across it. Sam's face wrinkled in distaste.

There were three chairs in the room, the one behind the desk black leather and luxurious, the ones facing white plastic and uninviting, a physical disincentive to prolonged meetings. While Dave walked around the desk to take his place, the brothers ambled past the temporary seating to the far side of the room where Dean leaned casually against the wall and Sam assumed an 'at-ease' position with his hands clasped behind his back, inviting Ada and Maud to take the seats, which they did.

When the company was settled, Dave's eyes darted suspiciously between them all.

Ada broke the quiet, declaring in a no nonsense tone, "Alright Dave, these boys are going to tell you some things that are wild and out there, but I want you to listen and I want you to believe because me and Maud are behind them one hundred percent. You got that?"

Dave's eyes went wide as he nodded hesitantly and shifted his gaze to the brothers.

Ada flashed the hunters an encouraging smile and pronounced, "Okay boys, floors yours."

Dean exhaled a slow, suffering breath. Prefacing what he was about to say as being _wild and out there_ wasn't entirely helpful. He gave Ada a sarcastic _thanks_ then launched into his spiel, giving Dave a shorthand account of the business they were in, their experience with spiritual unrest, before getting specific about what he thought was going on at the construction site and how they proposed to fix it.

It was a candid but minimal explanation told with a _just the facts ma'am_ kind of detachment and just enough detail to make sense. Dean figured that being clinical and scientific would be the best way to convince Dave of the truth, and if he wasn't convinced, if he reacted badly, then not too much had been revealed.

When it was all out on the table, Dave sat in stunned silence. There was a scowl pulling at his lip but he didn't react immediately.

After a few awkward minutes, he said gruffly, "You really think there's a dead body hidden in the building?"

It was a loaded question, full of skepticism, asked almost as a challenge and Sam answered calmly. "Yes, we really think that."

The manager shook his head in mute disbelief then huffed a laugh, like maybe it was a joke. But he grew serious when those in the room failed to share the humor. After a very long pause he stated simply, "No. I'm not going to let you take a crowbar to the place after the money I've spent. No."

"Small crowbar," Dean offered lightly. When the joke fell flat, he added soberly, "Look, there won't be much damage. I'm guessing the body is buried in the chandelier room, that's where most of the accidents have occurred. We'll use the sonar to find the bones, pull them out carefully, then take them outside to burn. It's going to be a lot cheaper in the long run getting hit with the small amount of damage we're talking about, than paying out a lawsuit."

Sam was stuck on the part about moving the bones outside. There'd been no discussion about that. Although now that he thought of it, it made sense that they would have to do the burn outside so the whole building wasn't lost to the flames. But it made him nervous that they were adding an extra step to a process that was already going to be hazardous.

Dave was looking conflicted. He seemed swayed by Dean's case but just couldn't bring himself to make the commitment and give the thumbs up.

"You really need to do this," Dean pressed. "If you want to make this building safe, you need to say yes."

Dave sighed, stuck between a rock and a hard place and Sam couldn't help but feel sorry for him. To the uninitiated the supernatural was a hard sell and Dave had just had a whole heap of crazy sounding shit dumped in his lap.

But the sympathy only went so far because Dave had to know that what was going on at his site was outside of normal. If it had only been one or two strange incidents maybe he could have deluded himself with a conclusion based on some extraordinarily rare cause and effect, but he was beyond that now, there was no way the catalogue of accidents at the site could be explained rationally. The fact that he wasn't yelling in outrage or arguing heatedly was an indication that a supernatural explanation for his problems wasn't too much of a stretch for Dave to believe.

The manager rubbed a hand across his forehead, closed his eyes and looked beaten.

"So you'll use the sonar and…?"

"Locate the bones," Sam quickly offered, feeling the tide turning in their favor. "We'll dig them up, salt and burn them out back…," at the look of confusion on the construction manager's face Sam held up a hand and said, "it's a ritual thing, it just completes the process. And that should be the end of your troubles."

Sam left it there, with possible complications unmentioned. Dave didn't need to be too fully informed, and they really couldn't predict exactly how it all might go down, there was no point volunteering pessimistic outcomes that may not occur.

"Will it be dangerous?" Maud asked in a small voice.

"Nah," Dean retorted flippantly. "Piece of cake. We do this all the time."

Maud didn't seem entirely convinced but gave Dean a warm smile, appreciating the bravado.

"What do I have to do?" Dave queried.

"Just give us the keys and stay the hell away," Dean replied.

"Uh…" Dave balked. "I think I'd rather be here with you."

"No, Dave, trust me, you'd rather not be here."

Dave frowned and said hesitantly. "I'm not sure about leaving you guys alone in the building. I'm responsible for what happens. I think I should be here."

Dean clicked his tongue and shuffled impatiently, getting annoyed by the reticence, starting to think they should have just broken into the site without informing the manager and done what had to be done.

"Jesus Christ Dave," Dean said roughly. "What do you think we're going to do? Steal your drywall? We're not fooling around here. You've got a tricky situation and we can fix it. But we're not doing it with you looking over our shoulder, getting in the way."

Dave stared at Dean looking somewhat abashed but still struggling with trust. He didn't really _know _these guys and they were asking a lot of him.

His gaze slid to Ada and Maud and he sought in their faces the reassurance he needed. He leaned forward in his chair and motioned the women to come in close, like a sidebar at a trial.

When their heads were together Dave asked quietly, pitching his voice low so the boys wouldn't hear, "You really think these guys are legit?"

Ada patted his hand and nodded. "We really do."

"Would you trust them alone in your house?"

The Brit chuckled. "If I had a ghost? Absolutely. They seem to know what they're talking about."

Dave gave the women a tight lipped nod and leaned back in his chair, disbanding the sub-group. There was a clear play of emotions across his features, internal arguments and counter-arguments fighting for supremacy. With a deep sigh, Dave said softly, "Yeah, alright then. You can have the place to yourselves tonight."

The underlying despair, the downcast eyes which hinted at _I am so screwed_ caused a flush of pity in Sam and he said, "We know you want to protect your investment, Dave. That's what we want too. We just want to make sure no-one else gets hurt here. If we thought it was safe then we'd have no qualms about you being by our side, but these things need some experience, they can be unpredictable and it's better for everyone if we face it alone."

Dave gave Sam a taut smile, a hint of appreciation in his eyes, grateful to the young man for his understanding and reassurance, but not entirely cured of his grave concerns. With forced brightness he proclaimed, "Then it looks like I'm leaving this to the professionals."

"Good for you Dave. I think you made the right choice," Maud professed. "You don't want the bones of some child molester in your lovely tourist attraction. That'd be bad karma."

Dave snorted. Bad karma. He seemed to be covered in it at the moment.

Ada turned to Dean, worry lining her face. "What happens if something goes wrong?"

Dean puffed out a breath, like the idea was preposterous. "You heard the man. We're professionals. What could go wrong?"

Ada coughed and said something that sounded suspiciously like 'bullshit' before continuing, "But you two are going to be on your own. What if something happens? What if it doesn't go to plan? No one will be there to help you."

Dean tried not to find offence in the words, knew she wasn't intentionally inferring that they were incompetent. "What part of being _professionals _don't you understand?"

"I was just thinking that maybe Maud and I should come along..."

"No way," Dean cut her off with a vehement shake of the head.

But she persisted. "If anything goes wrong, we can be on hand to help or call 911 or get the body bag out."

"I just told Dave he can't stay, no way am I saying yes to you."

"We don't have to be involved, just on the sidelines, onlookers, making sure you're safe."

"No Ada." Dean's voice rose. "No. Way"

Ada opened her mouth, but Dean cut her off with a point of his finger. "Shut it. Forget it. It's not happening. If I see your face tonight I am going to kick your ass, make no mistake. We need all our focus on the job, any distractions are just going to be dangerous."

Ada's lips pressed tightly into a thin line and she stared at Dean for a long unblinking moment, contemplating further challenge. But she could tell from his tone, the tension in his features that he was immovable on the subject, that opposition was futile, so she backed down with, "Well I want it noted for the record that I am not happy about it, not happy at all."

"Duly noted," Dean tersely replied. "All of you," he shifted his gaze around the group, making eye contact with the two women and the manager, "will stay away from this place until Sam and I give the all clear. You got that?"

Ada sighed dramatically and gave a begrudging nod. Dave too gave a nod that wasn't entirely willing. Maud hesitated, looked at the others to gauge the consensus then added herself to the majority.

Dave walked the group out of the site and bade them a dour farewell at the gate without lingering for any final pleasantries.

Sam thanked the women for their help in getting Dave on-side. It was going to make their job much easier not having to sneak around, not having to worry about being caught or interrupted.

As the brothers turned to leave Ada put a hand on Dean's arm and said quietly, "Just promise you'll be careful, yeah?"

He gave her a cocky smile and replied, "Always."

Ada shook her head at the infuriating self confidence and felt real trepidation as she watched the brothers walk away, wondering what might be in store for them tonight.

**

* * *

**

A/N:

Okay, last couple of chapters have been a little dry. We wanted to get the set up right, be clear on what was going on. Now we can move onto some action. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

It was early when the boys returned to the construction site, much earlier than their usual night-time activities. That was the benefit of clueing the owner in on the plan. Dave had said he would make sure the area was deserted by 7pm, so the brothers arrived confidently at the site a few hours later.

But even though it was a fully authorised visit, they still didn't want to alert passersby to their presence, it would be inconvenient if someone were to investigate why they were on the premises after hours, so they chose not to illuminate the building with the powered lighting as they picked their way through to the room at the back, relying on their flashlights, keeping the beam at their feet so as not to trip over the scattered debris and materials.

The chandelier room was opportunely beyond the view from the road so there were no qualms about flicking on the light in that room, and when they did so the brothers discovered that the downed chandelier had been temporarily replaced by a sad, bare globe hanging from the ceiling. It bathed the expansive room in a soft glow that didn't quite reach the edges, left the corners shadowed and that was fine, the space didn't need to be brilliantly lit for them to get the job done.

Sam shouldered the laden duffle onto the floor in the centre of the room and crouched beside it to extract his sawed off shotgun. He loaded it with salt shells then stuffed the weapon down the back of his jeans, snug in the crease of his spine, the waistband tight across his stomach. He reached into the duffel and pulled out a handful of extra shells which he crammed into the pockets of his jacket, worn for just that purpose in spite of the humidity which lingered in the night air, until he had easily a dozen stashed on him ready for reload.

Satisfied that he was rudimentarily prepared for spiritual activity Sam carefully removed the hand held sonar from the duffel. He studied it for a moment, looking closely at the switches and dials, trying to remember how to work the thing, so long since they had last used it. He twirled the knobs which got the machine emitting a static noise, then with more fiddling the static became a low steady hum. A needle at the top of the equipment was swinging in wild arcs from side to side across a numbered gauge and Sam detached a small weighted pointer clipped to the side of the device and aimed it at the floor to settle the frenzied motion, keeping still until the needle became inert. Understanding the machine's visual and audio cues was like riding a bike, it was all coming back to him and Sam nodded to himself at the reading which was telling him something about the density of the earth directly beneath.

Dean meanwhile, had taken the EMF out of his pocket and paced a few steps around the room. He grunted low in his throat, a knowing sound, a wordless _I knew it_, and Sam automatically glanced at him even though he could hear the device squealing, knew what his brother was reacting to.

"There's definitely _something_ here," Dean reported, eyes flicking between Sam and the readout. "And it's giving off pretty strong readings."

Sam nodded, a little uneasy at his brother's use of the word _something_, like maybe he wasn't sure of what it was. And then he mused that they _didn't_ really know what it was, their whole theory was based on supposition and circumstantial evidence because whatever was onsite had never actually revealed itself.

Dean strode to the duffel and dropped the EMF inside, its usefulness at an end, then made his own preparations with a sawed off shotgun and the pocketing of extra shells before reaching into the bag to retrieve a crowbar. He tucked the crowbar into the back of his jeans, keeping his hands free to handle the gun, and it brought a smile to Sam's face, a long rod of metal jutting from his brother's pants, waving around unsteadily. It didn't look comfortable.

"You ready?" Dean asked and Sam immediately schooled his features, became all business.

"Yeah." He dropped his gaze to the sonar and made some last minute adjustments. "Where do you want me to start?"

"Start in the middle and work out," Dean suggested.

"Right."

Sam was already in the centre of the room so considered where he was as his starting point. Dean picked up the duffel and slid it toward the wall, out of the way, then took a few steps back, giving his brother space. He assumed a sturdy defensive stance with his legs slightly apart and held the shotgun casually across his torso, not exactly primed to shoot but ready, definitely ready. Dean's implacable calm was always impressive, it always inspired confidence in Sam, gave him a real sense of safety.

"Here we go," Sam uttered and took his first tentative steps.

"Bring it on," Dean replied, with a grin like he was looking forward to whatever may come.

--

They lurked in the shadows, careful not to be seen, careful not to be heard, determined not to be detected.

"Ow. Goddamn it."

"Shhhh!"

Unfortunately, covert was not their strong suit.

"There's shit everywhere Ada, I can't see a thing," Maud protested in a miffed whisper. "I think I just stepped on a nail, there's something in my shoe. I may get tetanus. Do you care Ada? Do you care that I may get tetanus and DIE?"

"Would you shut up," the Brit hissed. She squinted through the darkness at her companion to assure herself that the dramatics were overstated then continued edging her way around the exterior of the building.

"This has got to be the stupidest idea you've ever had," Maud said in a strained whisper. "And you've had a lot of stupid ideas."

Ada halted and waited for her friend to catch up. "Why don't you get a megaphone big mouth? Just get a megaphone and let the whole world know that we're here. Because clearly you are incapable of stealth."

"Get stuffed. There's shit everywhere, I can't be quiet when I am continually stepping on shit."

"I am aware of the shit status Maud. It's a construction site. Nobody made you come."

"Yeah right," Maud huffed and in a mocking tone, a parody of Ada, said, "_I'm going to the construction site to check on the boys, you can just wait here because you're a useless cow_."

"I didn't say you were a useless cow," Ada retorted, then added under her breath, "I just thought it."

"Yeah exactly. Hence my need to come along."

"Well useless cows need to be quiet."

Maud put her hands on her hips and said snidely, "If I'm a useless cow then you're mutton dressed as lamb. Do you have any idea how ridiculous you look?"

She roved her gaze over Ada's attire and despite her disagreeable mood, couldn't help the twitch up at the corners of her mouth. Her friend was clothed in a low cut black taffeta cocktail dress with shoe string straps, rouched at the cleavage, cinched at the waist and dropping to below the knee with some tulle under the skirt for volume. A long sleeved matching bolero jacket covered Ada's arms and was fastened by a single large button over her chest. To finish the bizarre ensemble, Ada wore old trainers on her feet, a salute to practicality and the difficulty of negotiating an uneven surface in heels, although Maud had tried to convince her that black low heeled pumps coordinated the outfit much better.

It was a very different ensemble to the casual black cotton pants, black t-shirt and white runners Maud was wearing.

"We needed to dress in black so we blend in," Ada replied flatly, weary of the remarks about her unconventional attire, starting to wish she'd worn something else. "We're being stealthy. And this was the only black outfit that was clean. If you were on top of the laundering maybe I would have had an alternative outfit. Something a little less governor's ball and a little more ninja." She tried to shoot a withering look over her shoulder but wasn't sure how effective it was in the dark. "But _you _let down the team and _I'm_ the one who has to pay the price."

"Hey, anytime you want to take over laundry duty, be my guest," Maud returned. "I really don't understand why you couldn't take something out of the dirty clothes basket and wear that."

"Because I'm not going to wear something dirty, that's disgusting," Ada retorted, and she knew what Maud was going to say next, they'd already had this conversation, _you should have worn your jeans, you should have worn something darkish colored_ and yeah, maybe that would have been more practical, but she wanted to be in black, only black, so that she would sink into the darkness, because frankly she was shitting herself about being seen. Dean had said their presence could be dangerously distracting and she believed him, she was aware that disobeying his request and sneaking around the construction site could have disastrous consequences and it gave her an acute desire to remain undetected. Looking stupid was a small price to pay if it kept them all safe.

Ada said quickly, to belay any further talk about her attire, "Now big mouths shut, we don't want Dean to get wind of what we're up to because he has a gun and he may well use it if he finds us sneaking around."

Maud snorted softly. "Scared of a young man Ada? Met your match?"

"Oh please. I'm not scared of Dean, I could SO take him. Even with my gimpy leg."

Maud regarded her friend dubiously. "Not in that dress you couldn't. Although if you had a dance off..."

The pair continued their prowl around the edge of the building until they drew near a window which looked into the chandelier room. Maud was peering closely at the ground, trying to watch her footing and failed to notice Ada stop. There was a clash of bodies, stifled yelps and hands grabbing for balance.

A low growl escaped Ada. "You wanna watch where you're walking unco?"

"I _was_ watching," Maud griped. "How about some notice when you bring that fat arse to a halt?"

The women inched themselves closer to the window, Maud looking for vantage over her friend's shoulder. They peeped cautiously through the dusty glass, trying to see what the Winchester brothers were doing inside.

They froze at the sound of rustling behind them, the distinct noise of someone walking through the grounds, approaching where they hid.

Maud grabbed Ada's shoulder, fingers pressing painfully tight. They barely dared to breathe, aware that discovery would involve an explosion of vitriol and recrimination, their decision to disregard the request that they stay away was pretty much indefensible.

Maud let go of her friend and melted into the shadows of the building, hoping, with uncommon fervor, that the black outfit would make her invisible. _Thank God for wearing the black._

All Ada could think about was that Dean was going to kill her and she was wearing a damned cocktail dress… he was going to laugh his head off and then kill her.

"What are you two doing here?!"

The male voice was strained, muted, more astonished than angry.

"Dave?"

Ada's anxiety melted, her thrumming heart slowed to a normal beat and then she had to clasp her hand over her mouth as she took in the vision that was Dave. He was dressed like them, all in black, even the top of his head was enclosed in a beanie, but in Ada's opinion, he had gone a step too far with the black strips that went across his nose and under both eyes.

She felt a strong urge to giggle. Dave looked like a cross between Jean Claude Van Damme and a cat burglar. "What the fuck are you wearing?"

Dave narrowed his eyes at Ada trying to survey her in the darkness and took a long time answering, not quite trusting that he was seeing her correctly.

"Ada… what the hell are _you_ wearing? Are you going to a ball?"

A choked laugh escaped Maud.

--

Dean was still, eyes tracking his brother's movements, alert for any of the precursors to a supernatural presence. Sam ambled slowly around the room in an ever widening circle, the sound emanating from the handheld sonar the only noise in the otherwise still room.

Just when Dean was starting to question his instincts, review the evidence in his head, wonder whether he was wrong about a hidden body or it being in this room, there was a change in the frequency of the noise emitted by the sonar.

Sam peered closely at the instrument, frowning at the display.

"You got something?"

"Maybe." Sam took a large step left, eyes sharp on the readout, then took a step back to his original position before pronouncing, "It looks like this area of the floor is less dense."

"Good enough for me."

Dean strode to where his brother stood, toward the front of the room and pulled the crowbar out of his waistband. He crouched at Sam's feet, placing the shotgun on the floor beside him, and ran his fingers over the floorboards looking for a groove or a nick, some entry point for the edge of the crowbar to pry up the wood without causing too much damage. At the most accommodating place he jammed the crowbar hard between two planks levering his weight underneath to entice the nails to release their grip. The wood screeched and complained as, by degrees, the board began to rise. Dean increased the pressure, too impatient for a deft touch, and suddenly the wood snapped, throwing up dust and splinters that he instinctively turned his head away from as his knuckles slammed into the ground.

He drew up on his haunches, wiped his hands against his shirt, and examined the damaged floor then fixed an exaggeratedly rueful expression on Sam. "Oops. Hope Dave has more floorboards."

Sam breathed a laugh and thought _that's the_ _least of Dave's worries_.

Dean wedged the crowbar under the wood again and continued prising until a length came away, providing a skinny opening. He thrust his hand into the hole at the same time as Sam extracted a flashlight from his pocket and shone it into the cavity.

"I think I can feel something," Dean said, his arm in the opening all the way to his shoulder, his head touching the floor. He rapped his knuckles on a box hidden under the surface.

"Yeah I think I can see it," Sam answered. "It's not that deep."

He switched off the flashlight and returned it to his pocket, then turned off the sonar, leaving the room strangely, jarringly quiet without the background mechanical hum. He walked over to the duffel and shoved the device into the cloth folds but straightened and swiveled fast when he heard a dragging noise, something being pushed across the floor.

He watched in horror as a work bench that had been resting against a wall careened across the room toward Dean.

When Dean saw the charging object he tried to simultaneously snatch up his gun and extract his arm from the cavity. The gun was no trouble, it was deliberately close, but his watch snagged in the narrow opening as he rapidly pulled out his arm and his body jerked back toward the floor with a hard tug at the shoulder. He growled in frustration at seconds lost that he couldn't afford, and darted quick gazes between his brother and the bench, gauging the relative distances and whether Sam would be able to help him.

Sam reached around for the gun at his back and pointed it toward the moving bench, firing off a shot, but without a target, no idea where in the room the spirit was, he was just aiming wildly, taking a guess at where it might be.

The blast had no effect. The object continued its course.

There was a minute change in Dean's expression, a wry resignation, as his eyes left Sam and focussed on the charging bench. He didn't panic as he tried to free his hand from the aperture, quelling the instinct to tug violently and instead rotated his hand in small twist and pull motions trying to clear the bulky watch.

But it was all too fast. The bench was hurtling, the watch was defiant and there just wasn't time to get out of the way. Sam could do no more than watch helplessly, too far away to offer physical aid, and desperately hope that Dean's theory about the spirit not wanting to kill anyone held true.

--

"My god your head is enormous!"

"Fuck off!"

"No seriously. It's like a melon on a toothpick. How do you live with it?"

Ada turned away from the window and slapped her friend's arm, a grin on her face. "The real problem is your stumpy legs which don't allow you to see over people with normal sized heads."

Maud chuckled. No matter what the situation, she always enjoyed their banter, their caustic senses of humor were a perfect match. And it was calming, it settled frazzled nerves cracking wise like everything was normal.

"What's going on in there?"

The Brit twisted back to the window and Maud bobbed her head trying to see past, searching for a position that gave her some sort of view.

"Sam's just walking around," Ada reported. "Dean's standing watching him."

"So, riveting stuff then."

"Oh wait….Dean's moving… he's going over to Sam… and he's pulling out the crowbar. Okay, here we go," Ada breathed.

Dave was on the opposite side of the window to the women having bravely ducked across the opening while the boys were facing away. He was still close enough to hold a muted conversation and the women heard him mutter to himself, "You be careful with that crowbar, friend."

Maud stood on tiptoes and craned her neck for a glimpse of the room but the brothers were outside her view, to one side, so even when she did see past Ada it was only of empty space. She let out a frustrated sigh.

In unison Ada and Dave let out a restrained rueful cry, reacting to something that had happened inside.

"What?" Maud cried and she was finding it increasingly difficult to whisper. "What is it?"

"Goddammit," Dave cursed under his breath.

"Dean just snapped a floorboard," Ada quietly explained.

"So much for being careful," the manager griped. "I wasn't planning on replacing the floor in that room, looks like I'll have to reconsider."

"He could be using a sledgehammer Dave," Ada pointed out. "He's doing the best he can." She gave a small huff, taking umbrage on the boys behalf, and returned her attention to the inside. "Looks like they've found something," she said, resuming the commentary for Maud. "Sam's putting the sonar away." The narrative was interrupted by a gasp and a frightened, "Oh God…"

"What?" Maud couldn't stand being on the outer, she elbowed her way into the line of sight, the hell with being seen. "What's going on in there?"

--

Sam sprinted to his brother's side.

"Dean?"

The elder Winchester was sprawled on the ground with both arms flung above his head in a classic dive position.

"Sonuvabitch," he groaned and slowly, gingerly, brought his arms down and rolled onto his side.

Dean was very aware of his right shoulder. The flat edge of the bench had nailed him across his back a fraction of a second before he could throw himself out of the way after his watch came free and he must have led with that shoulder because that was where he was feeling it most. It screamed in pain, protested at the slightest movement and sent a throb down his arm with a ferocity that numbed his fingers.

But he figured he should be grateful the bench hadn't struck a few inches higher, it might have taken his head off.

With grunting breaths and some tight blinks he pushed himself to a sit, with Sam adding a light hand at his back to help. When he was upright blood started rushing painfully around the injury and he closed his eyes as he cradled the shoulder, fingers pressing tightly into the skin, keeping the joint immobile to try and alleviate the throb.

"Is it dislocated?" Sam worriedly asked, crouched in front of him.

Dean shook his head, unable to talk through clenched lips and gritted teeth. After a few long minutes the throb started to ease, the numbness in his arm subsided and the pain dialed down to a manageable level, becoming more of a background ache.

"That was unpleasant," Dean grimaced and opened his eyes to look at his brother. "What is it about attacking _me_? Why am I always the target?"

"You were the one with your arm in the hole," Sam replied reasonably. "How does it feel? Is it alright?" He nodded at the shoulder and hovered his hands, looking for permission to examine.

"It feels great," Dean replied wryly and tested the joint with small shrugs and rolls. "Oh yeah, I should have had you whack me across the shoulder with a piece of wood years ago."

Sam ignored the sarcasm and gently probed the shoulder, pushing and kneading, feeling for himself the extent of the injury because he knew Dean would shrug it off.

"Did you see anything?" Dean asked, looking around absently, a little embarrassed by his brother's attention. "Like which one of them threw the bench?"

"Nah."

There was a growl low in Dean's throat. "That just pisses me off." He raised his voice, directing it around the room. "You could at least show yourself when you attack a guy."

Sam finished his examination and dropped his hands with a deep, relieved breath, satisfied that the injury wasn't serious.

"You okay to keep going?" The question was almost rhetorical, Dean could be nearly dead and want to finish the job, but Sam thought he would ask anyway.

"Yes," was the predictable answer, and Dean glared at Sam like the question offended him. He reached for his gun and climbed to his feet. "Your turn pulling up the floor," he stated flatly.

"Yeah, okay," Sam replied in immediate agreement.

Dean watched the room tensely, eyes in constant motion, as his brother pulled up the floorboards. He kept his sore shoulder moving with small exercises to prevent it stiffening and slowly paced the room feeling for cold spots. The failure of the spirits to materialize before attacking made him edgy, hyper-vigilant. He had no doubt the attacks would continue, especially now that they had located the coffin, and he felt at a distinct disadvantage.

When Sam had pried up a number of boards, he lent back on his heels, swiped at the dampness on his forehead and said, "You know, I think this will do it. I think there's enough space to lift out the coffin."

Dean was surprised to see the hole so big, he hadn't been watching the progress and Sam had worked really quickly. He was even more surprised that there hadn't been another protest from the resident disgruntled ghost. He wondered whether the spirit needed a rebuilding period after expelling all its energy, needed time to work up power after. That could be handy if it were so.

He drew beside Sam and peered into the hole, figuring out the logistics of getting the large box out. He pointed the gun, like an extension of his hand, at a corner. "If you lever the crowbar under there…"

With a startled cry, Sam was suddenly no longer beside him. Dean did a comical double take and instinctively whipped his gun up to the ready position as he swiveled his head looking for where his brother went. He found Sam behind him, sprawled on his back a couple of feet away, dazed but unhurt.

Dean clicked his tongue and went over to his brother to offer a hand.

"You want to stay with me here?" Dean asked irritably, and he knew it was unfair to be laying some sort of blame, like Sam had any control over being attacked, but frustration was getting the better of him.

"Yeah, that came out of nowhere," Sam said apologetically. As they walked back to the gape in the floor, he ventured, "Maybe we should put a ring of salt around us while we work in the hole."

Dean considered the idea seriously, it definitely held merit. It came down to how much salt they would need for that and how much they had brought with them. He didn't want to get caught short at the pointy end of the job.

"Let's just keep going for the moment," he decided. "At least the spirit, spirits, whoever's here, aren't trying to kill us. Gotta be grateful for small mercies."

Sam gave him a sideways glance, considering a retort. The spirits may not be trying to kill but they had no qualms about inflicting injury.

Dean tucked the shotgun into his waistband and crouched beside the hole, pointing once again at a corner, taking up where he left off. "Put the crowbar under that end and I'll get my hands underneath it."

Sam wedged the curved end of the crowbar under the edge Dean had indicated and levered up. It was awkward work, there was just enough space for each of them to put one leg into the hole beside the wooden box and that was preferable to laying on the floor and reaching down, but it was very confined, very hard to maneuver. With some grunting and swearing Dean managed to shimmy his fingers under the uplifted corner until he had sufficient purchase beneath to pull the box up, at which point Sam ditched the crowbar, ran to other side of the hole and got his hands under the box on the opposite side. Together they lifted the short edge of the box over the lip of the hole, and rested the base against the exposed floorboards such that it was on a precarious slant.

"Look at this," Sam exclaimed, and brushed at the years of dirt and dust on the lid of the coffin to reveal an etched symbol.

Dean's brow furrowed, "Huh."

He swiped away the dust from another side of the box and proclaimed, "There's one here too."

Both brothers gave the box a cursory examination on all sides, as best they could while it still lay half hidden in the pit.

"It's seems to be etched on every side," Sam stated.

"That's interesting," Dean said pensively. "Aren't they the symbols for…"

"Yeah," Sam finished. "A lock box."

"A lock box," Dean echoed quietly and ran a hand across his brow. "They thought they had to contain the evil inside?" He shot his brother a worried look. "Just how dangerous is this Bonner guy?"

"Maybe we shouldn't find out," Sam suggested.

"Sam..," Dean said, with a disapproving tilt of his head.

"Yeah, I know," Sam cut him off. _This is what we do._

They positioned themselves on either side of the box preparing to lift it fully out of the hole when Dean felt a pressure on his chest, cold hands giving him a forceful shove, and he was pushed backward, sliding over the floorboards until he came to rest in a similar sprawl to that of his brother a few minutes before.

He thumped a fist onto the ground and shouted, "This is really pissing me off!"

"You alright?" Sam cantered over and offered a hand.

"Of course I'm alright, this is kids stuff, this is playground bully stuff. Just wait until I get a chance to push back."

"Listen," Sam said loudly, startling Dean because they were standing right next to each other, "whoever you are…" and Dean realized his brother was addressing the spirits. "Joseph, Eleanor, Ed, whoever, we're here to help. We know who's in this box, we know you're trying to protect people and we can help you with that. It's what we do."

Sam shot a look at his brother, a small shrug conveying _I don't know, maybe this could work. _

Dean returned the shrug. _Worth a try._

Sam continued, "But we can't do this job if you keep attacking us. And we know you're not trying to kill us, which is very nice, thank you, but still, if you would just lay off for a while, we could get this done a whole lot faster and then there won't be any need for you to spend eternity guarding this soul."

They brothers waited expectantly for some sort of sign that Sam had been heard and understood. After a few still minutes Dean muttered to his brother, "You think they heard? Are we in the clear?"

Sam put a hand on his brother's arm and pointed to a spot across the room where there was a barely perceptible shimmer, a slight disturbance to the air. As they watched, three figures flickered and took shape.

"Hey hey, the gang's all here," Dean said quietly and very slowly he reached around and laid a hand on the gun at his waistband, not removing it, not wanting to do something that provoked a response, but ready if things went south.

Sam took a few steps toward the spirits, raising his hands to show he wasn't threatening. "We understand what you're doing, _really_ we do. And you've kept people safe…" at a snort from Dean he amended to, "..alive, for a long time now. But times have changed and you can't do this anymore. You're hurting people and that is the opposite of what you intended. So let _us _finish this. We can do that for you. We can make sure Bonner will never be a danger and help you find peace."

He waited with bated breath for the reaction from the guardians.

--

Stunned silence blanketed the three interlopers peering in from the outside.

"Fuck. Me."

Maud said it in an undertone, barely audible, and Ada huffed a short laugh because very rarely did her friend go the full monty when swearing but it was so wildly appropriate in the circumstances it almost had Ada saying amen.

The blonde almost jumped out of her skin when she felt a hand grope at her wrist, every nerve was on edge. But then she recognized Maud's slim fingers working their way down to her hand, interlacing themselves into a firm grip and she squeezed in support, sharing strength with her friend as together they witnessed the most extraordinary, incredible encounter of their lives.

"Those people are dead!" Maud whispered in disbelief, struggling to process what was going on. "We can see them, but they're dead."

Ada nodded mutely, at a loss for words, which was more expressive than any response she could have given, a rare thing for her not to have words.

For all the tout of ghosts in this town, the exploitation of history that the economy thrived on and which locals perpetuated by reciting tales of unexplained incidents and alleged ghostly activities to wide eyes tourists, there was generally an underlying nudge and a wink, a degree of skepticism amongst the locals about such matters. Evidence of its truth, evidence that spirits really existed, and more than that, that they were powerful, dangerous, was almost too much to comprehend.

"You're seeing this right?" Ada called quietly to Dave. "Can you believe it?"

"Yeah, I see it Ada." His tone was flat, expressionless. "I see it."

As they continued to watch the proceedings inside, Maud pressed Ada's hand and shot her a worried glance. Ada knew what it meant, knew how to read her friend. She was scared for the boys. They finally understood what it was they had been trying to warn them about. This was serious stuff. And they could be in real trouble.

--

The three ghosts stood facing the brothers, not moving, not trying to communicate (and Dean was on the alert for that, he hadn't forgotten how painful their communication was), a kind of silent showdown that was a little unnerving.

Dean leaned in slightly to his brother and whispered, "You think they're with us or against us?"

"Hard to tell," Sam murmured out the side of his mouth.

_At least they're visible _Dean thought to himself. _Nice to have targets._

Ed and Joseph moved slightly, their arms twitched and Dean shifted closer to Sam, forming a united front.

"Are they reaching for their guns?" Sam asked quietly.

"It won't do them any good," Dean returned and curled his hand a little tighter around the gun hidden at his back. "Phantom guns only fire phantom bullets." After a beat he added uncertainly, "I mean, that'd be your understanding wouldn't it? Phantom guns don't actually work in the real world."

"That'd be my understanding," Sam quickly confirmed.

"Yeah. Exactly."

All three of the spirits started nodding. Deliberate, exaggerated nods, slow up and downs but at the same time the two males carefully moved their hands toward their gun belt.

"Whoa, whoa…" Dean snatched the shotgun out of his waistband and brought it around to bear. Phantom guns or not, he didn't like the idea of being fired upon.

Sam quickly laid a hand across the weapon, forcibly lowering it. "I think it's okay. I think they're telling us it's fine to continue."

"Yeah, and they're going to threaten us with guns while we do it…" Dean snapped.

"I don't think the guns are for us." Sam darted his gaze toward the coffin.

Dean regarded the spirits suspiciously, debating Sam's interpretation and came to the conclusion that his brother made sense - the nodding heads were for them, the guns were for Bonner. He sniffed and shook his head in bemusement. "Huh. You're a better ghost whisperer than Jennifer," he pronounced with a playful slap to Sam's chest.

Without turning their backs to the spirits, too cautious for that sort of vulnerability, the brothers moved unhurriedly toward the recumbent coffin, Dean with his gun loosely aimed at their supernatural companions.

"You pull out the coffin and I'll cover you," Dean instructed, still wary of the supposed agreement that had been reached.

Sam nodded without question, he understood Dean's instinct to stay on the alert, there was a lot of experience and training behind that caution.

He slid the box up and over the lip of the aperture, it wasn't particularly heavy, there was no trouble shifting it. But he was nervous about the decayed state of the wood. He wondered whether they could get it outside without one of the seams rupturing.

When the coffin was flat on the floor, Dean reluctantly returned his shotgun to his waistband and took up position at the short end of the box opposite Sam. Carefully the brothers lifted the coffin and trudged toward the door that led outside.

--

"Shit!" There was panic in Maud's voice as she flattened herself against the wall. The Winchesters' progress was going to take them past the window around which the secret onlookers huddled and she was desperate that they not be seen.

"Just be cool," Ada warned.

"They're coming outside," Maud hissed, "they're going to find us."

"Not they won't," Ada replied and looked to Dave to back her up.

"We need to make sure the light from inside doesn't hit us," Dave said, and took a few steps backward, up the side of the building, until he was almost invisible in the darkness. "As long as they don't come around this corner we should be okay."

Ada and Maud followed Dave's lead and took some steps back from the window, away from Dave, toward the front of the building, and melted into the night.

"I think we should go," Maud whispered anxiously to Ada. "I think we're too close. Enough's enough. If they see us it could all go very badly."

"No Maud," Ada firmly replied, "I want to stay close. I want to see what happens."

She shared Maud's concern. A part of her agreed that they should retreat, that things were getting dangerous, but her overriding instinct was to stay close, keep an eye on what occurred, see it through to the end, and above everything, make sure the boys were ok. She would never forgive herself if she left and something bad happened to them, something she could have done something about.

The sound of the door being thrust open was heard, the women couldn't see it from their vantage but after a few seconds the boys came into their line of sight, stumbling over sandy uneven ground and piles of building scrap before gently lowering the coffin onto a flat piece of ground a reasonable distance from the edifice.

The guardian spirits hovered nearby, the men with their guns directed at the box, Madame Moustache wringing a handkerchief.

"This could get nasty," Dean warned his brother. "We'd better do it fast."

"Loud and clear," Sam responded and ducked back inside the building, emerging moments later with a large container of salt, a small drum of gasoline, his shotgun tucked under one arm and the crowbar tucked under the other. He moved in close to Dean, placed the drum at his feet and handed over the crowbar, then moved around to the opposite side of the box and stood with the salt canister poised and the gun firmly trained at the coffin.

Dean knelt beside the wooden box and noticed from the corner of his eye the ghosts move in, assume a defensive stance, readying themselves to combat whatever might emerge from within, and the idea of ghosts allying with the living, providing them with backup, was so bizarre and unnatural that he had to clear his mind of the thought, pretend they weren't there and concentrate on what he was doing.

He wedged the crowbar under the lid and pushed against the tool, silently hoping the lid would pop up in one piece. And for a moment it looked like it would, there was screeching and straining down the length of the cover and he slid the crowbar along a few inches to lever from a different position so as not to put too much pressure on one point. But then the brittleness and decay asserted itself. Even though he was being cautious about how much force he exerted, the crowbar accidentally pierced the wood and a small chunk flew into the air.

In the dim light of the moon and what reached them from the building, Dean could see a yawning black hole, small but significant, in the lid of the coffin. He cursed under his breath and tried to quell the dread about what it might mean, what was being contained and what now had an escape route.

No sooner did the thought take shape than a wind started to eddy, kicking up debris and sand, throwing it around.

"This isn't good," Dean muttered.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:** (from Aussiemel) I just wanted to say a couple of things about this chapter, the first is that it is quite dark, not so much with the lightheartedness, so brace yourself for that. And the second is that it's ...a little rough. I haven't had a chance to tweak it properly and I won't have a chance to do so for at least four weeks, so I thought I would post it as is, hope it comes across okay.

* * *

**Chapter 9**

Dean abandoned the gentle prying of the coffin lid and started striking it with the crowbar, smashing his way through. It was more his style anyway. His battered shoulder protested at the movement, the sharp up and down sent a flare of pain from the injury in all directions, and the jarring as he hit caused an unpleasant crescendo which ticked in his jaw, but he didn't dwell on it. Bigger things were happening.

The stirring wind, which clearly had something to do with whatever was inside the coffin, had increased in intensity and was becoming a problem. Particles of sand and dust whipped around Dean's face, barging past his eyelashes, stinging and slashing his eyes, making it hard to complete the task. He blinked furiously and swiped roughly between blows to try and keep his vision clear but tears streamed down his cheeks and he couldn't eliminate the blur. So he slammed the eyelids shut. He couldn't see anyway, he figured he might as well save himself the sight damage.

He gripped tightly to the wooden edge of the coffin, finishing the job by touch. He ran a hand around the rim feeling for the places where he hadn't broken through.

"Are you done yet?" Sam called.

Dean opened his eyes narrowly, trying to visually locate his brother because through the howl of the wind he couldn't quite pick where he was. But very quickly he ducked his head back to his chest and abandoned the effort. Eyes opened or closed he wasn't going to be able to see Sam.

"Nearly," Dean returned.

Ignoring the splinters gathering in his fingers and the rubble which the gale crashed into him and deflected away, Dean continued to work his hands methodically around the edge of the box, pulling, prying, smashing until the interior was completely exposed.

He thrust his hand into the box feeling for the bones at the bottom, concerned that the wind might have tossed them around the yard, which would be disastrous, he'd have to crawl around the ground and collect them in order to finish the job. But his fingers skimmed the knobbled skeleton and he was relieved that they appeared to be intact, that the sides of the coffin were acting as a buffer to the air.

He heard a noise that sounded like something heavy smashing against the side of the building behind him and his first thought was that it could be Sam.

"Are you okay?" he called, needing to hear his brother's voice.

"I can't see a thing," Sam replied, and Dean shook his head at the statement of the patently obvious, grinning in both amusement and relief. "Tell me when I should start pouring."

"Start pouring," Dean yelled and pulled his hand out of the coffin, adding silently _good luck with that_, unsure how his brother could pour in the maelstrom, the salt was likely to end up anywhere.

He reached around to retrieve the shotgun tucked at his back, engaging in a tug of war with the wind which fought hard to wrench it from his grip. But nothing was surer in Dean's hand than a gun. He managed to bring the weapon around to his chest and let off a shot, up into the air, blind and wild, not sure where he should be aiming but wanting to be on the offensive, determined to put up a fight. There was a momentary remission in the wind, a sudden stillness like Dean was standing in the eye of a hurricane, and he used those few seconds to clamber to his feet and squint open his eyes to gauge what was going on around him.

But before he had time to see much of anything, the gale was upon him again, without any gentle lead in, and immediately Dean realized his error in being upright. He was offering a greater surface area upon which to act.

The force thrusting against his body made him stumble a few steps backward. He needed to make himself smaller, less of a target and he fought against the opposing pressure to bend at the waist, get himself into a crouch. But the wind held him firmly upright. And it felt deliberate. The wind didn't seem to be swirling randomly anymore, it was becoming more of an exercise in power, more directed and controlled, holding him in place.

Dean imagined this was akin to skydiving, having air rush hard and fast at his body, pushing his arms out wide to the side. But without the plummeting, and he appreciated that difference. His right shoulder burned at being forced to flex too far, he winced and groaned as he tried to bring that arm close to his chest, not just to alleviate the ache but to bring his gun to a manageable position. The weapon rattled in his hand so violently, twisted in his fingers so painfully, that if he could have let go he probably would have. But even that was beyond him. He was entirely helpless. Anger spiked within him, he was furious at his inability being dwelled upon by the spirit which kept him in that position for long, pointed minutes. And it was beginning to smart, the concentrated gale force. It was crushing his chest, making it hard to breathe.

There was a low, booming laugh.

"Well, well, well, look what we have here, young 'uns playing at cowboys and injuns. Trust me, you ain't got NO idea what I'm capable of…" a deep voice mocked.

_Jesus Christ, _Dean thought. _What is this thing?_

This wasn't the usual run of the mill spirit, it seemed almost demonic in its ability. Being able to harness a force of nature? A soul so black that it exhibited power like it was derived from hell? That was new. That was formidable. But it was still vulnerable to salt, the round he'd fired off proved that. Although even that reaction was uncommon, the salt had hampered the spirit rather than dissipated it. And that did not bode well.

A surging gust suddenly slammed into him, like a strong hand to the chest, and he was thrust backward toward the old building, smashing into the timbered wall with a crack that might have been panels splitting or bones breaking, he didn't have a chance to figure out which because his head struck hard against the wood, giving him a shock of pain that turned everything black as he crumpled to the ground.

*******

Sam crouched low against the coffin, making himself as small a target as possible against the gale which eddied around him, waxing and waning, one moment a moderate breeze and the next, strong enough that he had to grip the side of the coffin to remain in place.

He'd lost track of Dean. After the instruction to start pouring, his brother had been silent and that was worrying. Dean was the checking up type, the progress report type, bouncing out a question just to hear a response, ensuring everything was okay.

But Sam cast aside his concern for the moment and concentrated on the job. Pouring salt into the coffin was proving to be a _bitch_. He'd tried the normal tipping out method and the salt had scattered to all corners of the yard. Even angled directly over the coffin, the stream of salt had been picked up and flung away from the bones.

He decided that he needed to cut down on the wind resistance. He leaned into the box, legs on the outer, body doubled over until his top half was almost laying inside. He could feel Bonner's bones, sharp and hard underneath him and shuddered involuntarily at the close proximity.

While his legs continued to be buffeted by the gale, pelted by flying debris, his head and shoulders now enjoyed an abatement from the turbulence, the sides of the coffin provided a windbreak and he took a moment to run a hand through his hair, get the strands out of his face and tucked behind his ears, then rub at his eyes to remove the grit and sand.

He positioned the canister of salt close to his stomach, directly underneath him and started pouring out a thick solid stream. He side stepped on his knees from one end of the box to the other and although some of the salt was displaced by random probing gusts, he was satisfied that enough of the crystals remained in place to be effective.

He straightened from the coffin and clicked his tongue in annoyance as his too long hair went wild in the breeze, whipping around his face.

"Salt's done," Sam cried, hoping his brother could hear. "I'm gonna pour the gas now."

Sam strained his ears for a response and tried not to get despondent when he heard nothing. He ground the salt canister into the soil and moved on hands and knees around the coffin, eyes squinting in the dark to locate the drum of accelerant.

His progress was halted by a sharp pain in his thigh, something blown around by the wind embedding in the skin. He yelped in pain and dropped a hand to the spot to find a wedge of corrugated metal protruding from his jeans. He pulled at it instinctively, without any consideration for what might be the _correct_ way to deal with the injury and then yelped again as the metal tore it's way out.

He invoked some choice epithets as he pressed a hand hard against the wound and rocked back on his haunches so that he could inspect it more closely. It took a few beats for him to notice that the wind had died down, that the air was only stirring gently around him, like a natural night time breeze.

Sam immediately reached for the gun nestled against his spine. He was way too cynical to think that things settling down was good, it had to be a prelude to something else, something worse.

The three guardian spirits hovered nearby, looking at him anxiously. He thought they were silently sharing his concern about the calm until he realized they were looking past him, looking at what lay behind. With a feeling of real dread Sam turned toward the coffin and drew in a breath at the shadowy figure which hung in the air, the form vaguely human but exaggerated, oversized, reminding him bizarrely of the genie from Aladdin.

Sam pinched at the trigger and fired off a round. The cartridge blew a hole in the figure but didn't dissipate the spirit like it should, like it usually would, and the hole closed over quickly.

"What the...?" Sam muttered. And suddenly he had a desire for more research, a need to know what it was they were facing. His head swiveled desperately trying to locate his brother, wanting to discuss the aberrations in this spirit and how they were going to get around them. Out of the corner of his eye he saw movement behind him, near the building, Dean slowly climbing to his feet, wobbling, clinging to the wall for support.

"My turn to play, you son of a bitch," a deep voice growled, and Sam was smacked with a huge gust of air, like the wash from a jet engine, that picked him up and threw him across the yard.

-------------

"We've got to do something," Ada cried breathlessly.

Panic, fear, disbelief all crowded in on her, making her feel dizzy and sick. This was so much worse than she had anticipated. It was horrifying. They were far enough from the action to catch only the cusp of the unnatural wind, it whipped around their hair and clothing with impotent fury, too far removed from the source to be more than an annoyance. But she could hear the angry howl, could see the boys struggling to hold their positions, being pummeled by debris. When Dean and then Sam flew through the air, she gasped in fright and her stomach took a sudden, sickening dive as the thought went through her head _we're going to watch these boys get killed_.

She couldn't let that happen.

Dean had landed close against the building, outside her view, and Sam was somewhere to the right impossible to see in the darkness. She had an urgent desire to reach them and make sure they were okay. This was why she was here, this was why she had stayed, because someone had to look out for those boys.

She loosened her grasp on Maud's fingers trying to extract her hand so that she could make her way forward, but her friend tightened her grip in response.

"What are you doing?" Maud asked.

"We've got to do something," Ada urgently exclaimed. "We've got to help those boys."

Maud turned sharply toward her, eyes wide. "Just what do you think _we_ can do?"

"I don't know," Ada responded with furious helplessness. "But I can't stand here and watch."

She took a step forward, determined to drag her friend with her if that's what it took, but her progress was halted by Dave's iron grip on her arm. He had rejoined the women when the boys came outside, the women had taken some steps forward and he had taken some steps back and they had met in the middle, a couple of feet up the siding from the back yard.

"You're not going anywhere," Dave stated, surprising Ada with how angry he was at the suggestion.

"We should call the police," Maud suggested. "This is too much for us, we should call the police and let them handle it."

Ada shook her head vigorously. "No! The police can't help, and it will just get those boys in trouble."

"I'd rather they were in trouble than dead," Maud cried.

"They're wanted men, Maud," Ada barked, pulling against the dual grasps. "If we call the cops then those kids will spend a lifetime in jail and I won't be a party to that."

"Wanted?" Maud echoed uncertainly. "What do you mean wanted? What did they do?"

"Later Maud! Jesus Christ it's not important right now," Ada said desperately and became more insistent in attempting to break the holds, twisting in the grips to try and shrug them off. "Let me go!"

Dave stepped forward and brought his arm around the Brit in a bear hug, physically restraining her from joining the fray and Ada thrashed like a wildcat in the hold.

"Settle down," he commanded sharply. "Two lives on the line is _enough_."

Ada quieted in his arms, realizing the futility of struggling against someone stronger, but her body trembled as she took in great racking breaths, very close to hyperventilating in her distress.

Dave returned his attention to the yard and muttered regretfully, "God, I wish I'd never agreed to this. I think I was better off before."

-------------

"You alright?" Sam asked worriedly.

Dean gave his brother a terse nod. He was leaning against the building with his hands splayed to the side pressing hard against the wall to remain upright so he wasn't _entirely _alright, he was in fact as dizzy as hell, but he interpreted the question to mean _can you continue? _and the answer to that was an unequivocal yes.

"What happened to your leg?" Dean asked. He hadn't missed Sam's limping gait as he skirted around the edge of the yard toward him.

Sam waved his hand dismissively. "Copped some shrapnel. It's nothing."

And it was true enough, the gash to his leg smarted when there was weight on it but it was a fairly minor wound. He was relieved not to have suffered any further damage being thrown across the yard, it had knocked the air out of him for a moment, probably left a bruise on his back, but nothing more serious. And it had given him an opportunity to scoot around the boundary to join up with his brother.

"Okay, how are we going to do this?" Sam ventured. "This isn't your everyday spirit. Do we need to change our MO? How do we get rid of this thing?"

"It's just a very pissed off spirit Sam, nothing we can't handle. All we need to do is salt and burn the bones, same as usual."

Sam nodded, reassured by his brother's certainty. "I've got the salt laid, so we just need to pour the accelerant and fire it up."

Dean glanced at the site, nervously anticipating Bonner's next attack. He saw that the guardians were shooting at the spirit without the usual noisy report of gunfire, the sound turned off, evidence that the guns were being fired coming from the stance of the male spirits and the little wisps of smoke curling from their barrels.

It didn't seem to be having any effect on Bonner. Apparently phantom guns didn't work in the spirit world either. But it still enraged the evil spirit, his features contorted in seething displeasure and he boomed, "You murderous dogs. You would seek to end me _again_? I will not have it."

In a flicker of light Bonner stood directly before the guardians and grabbed one of the men by the throat, (Dean tried to work out if it was Tranter or Scheifflin, then gave it up after a few seconds as irrelevant). He squeezed the man's neck with a malicious smile, the choking man kicking and flailing, trying to pry away the hand at his throat, just as he would have done if he were alive.

"I've waited a long time for this you yella belly, now let's see who has the upper hand," Bonner sneered.

The other male was shooting furiously at the spirit, with a point blank range that would have been deadly in real life but had absolutely no effect in death, no evidence at all that bullets were impacting. Madame Moustache looked on in wide eyed fear as Bonner grinned at the figure jerking in his grasp and suddenly she assumed an expression of grim determination and threw herself at Bonner, tackled him from the side, trying to force his hand away from the pinned man and it resulted in all three of them, Bonner, Moustache and the choking man disappearing, sputtering out like a flame.

After a pause Dean asked hopefully, "Is that it?"

His heart was beating a little fast in response to the brutality of what had just occurred. Even though it wasn't real, wasn't real people, wasn't real pain, it had looked convincingly like they had just watched a guy get choked to death. And Bonner had taken delight in it. Bonner looked like the sort who got a kick out of inflicting pain.

His question was answered when there was a shimmer above the coffin and Bonner reappeared.

"Of course that's not it," Dean muttered. "Why would I think that's it? An easy solution? We don't get no easy stinking solutions." He huffed and went silent while he thought things through. "Okay listen. The salt rounds punch a hole in that monstrosity," he tipped his head toward Bonner. "We can't blow it away but we can create a void in his reach. If we keep punching a hole in it, we mess with his ability to reach us and we can make our way to the coffin."

"Are you sure?" Sam said dubiously, eyeing the black behemoth.

"No I'm not sure," Dean groused. "What are you looking for here, logarithms and calculations? It's an idea." Before Sam could protest further he continued, "I'll create the path and you stay close behind. When we get to the coffin, you pour and I'll cover."

_But but but…._

Sam could think of a hundred different ways to object to that plan. There were a myriad of unspoken variables and possibilities that could foil its success. But Dean was good at this stuff, coming up with plans on the fly, he had incredible instincts when it came to the supernatural, and if they were going to follow some spur of the moment plan they were always better off following a plan devised by Dean.

Dean snapped open his shotgun and removed, then replaced the spent cartridge. Sam followed suit and did the same while his mind whirled furiously through ideas, trying to anticipate what was to come, trying to devise alternatives if this didn't work.

"Stay behind me," Dean ordered as he pushed himself off the wall and took two steps away from the building, toward the coffin.

Bonner had advanced on the last remaining guardian with a murderous look on his face, determined to wreak revenge on those who had cut short his life. He was holding the guardian in a choking grip, in the same way that he held the other, and Dean secretly hoped that he was distracted enough for them to reach to coffin.

"I see you curs," Bonner sang, and laughed low.

Quick as a flash he twisted the guardians head to the side and, while obviously it didn't actually snap his neck, spirits didn't have bones, it did a pretty good approximation, it was as close to murdered as a dead guy was going to get and it caused the guardian to flicker like he was short circuiting and disappear.

Without hesitation Dean let off a shot, and the bullet ripped through the evil spirit. The gentle, light flecked blackness of the night was discernible through a sizeable hole in the middle of the form.

"You ain't NEVER gonna git rid of me," the spirit jeered. "By the time I've finished with you two, there won't be enough left of you to bury."

Dean figured he had about five seconds before the breach closed over. He took some hurried steps forward until he could feel at his lower legs sand pelting his jeans, wind buffeting his calves, the spirit trying to mount an attack but thwarted by the void that Dean had created.

When a burst of wind almost took Dean's legs out from under him he fired off another shot and re-established the hole.

"Reload," he commanded, holding his shotgun behind him as he strode forward another few steps. Sam grabbed the gun from Dean's hand replacing it with his own, emptied the spent cartridges from the chambers and reloaded Dean's gun with fresh bullets from his pockets.

Two more shots and they were by the side of the coffin. Sam thrust the reloaded gun to Dean and shouldered past heading for the drum of kerosene which was nestled against the side of the box. As he crouched down and twisted off the lid he heard another booming report from Dean's gun and thought _one bullet left_. _I need to get this done fast. _

He tilted the drum, jerking it up and down to make the liquid pour quickly, but he discovered that the void created by Dean was imperfect, Bonner was unable to attack them directly but he was manipulating the air around them, creating probing gusts, and the liquid being poured splash onto Sam, over his hands and clothes. He was wet with it by the time the bones had been covered.

The boom of the last bullet rang out and Sam scrambled to his brother's side.

"You're going to have to light it up," Sam stated urgently, a hint of apology in his tone. "Or I'll become a human fireball."

Dean gave a tight nod. "Reload," he ordered quietly, pressing the gun, which had already been snapped open, to Sam's chest. Sam saw a glint of doubt in his brother's eyes, an unspoken suspicion that they didn't have time for the reload or the change in roles.

Sam nodded solemnly pushing the box of matches into Dean's hand and tried to ignore the feeling that his brother might be right.

As Sam's fingers nimbly pried out the spent cartridges Dean flicked open the matchbook and tore out a match.

Wind was howling through the yard and the brothers' protective cocoon was gradually decreasing, they could feel the whipping air spreading across their body.

Dean got a match alight but it rapidly sputtered out in the gusty breeze.

"Bonner," Dean muttered under his breath. "You are a troublesome son of a bitch."

As he struck another match his eyes darted to Sam. He saw his brother fumbling to insert the fresh bullet into the gun, his hair whipping wildly around his face hampering his vision. He kept flicking his head trying to make the hair trail behind but because the wind wasn't blowing in one direction he was unable to escape it.

_He's getting a goddamned haircut_ Dean growled internally. The hell with casual and relaxed or whatever style Sam was aiming for with that girlish length, when it started interfering with the job it was time for a good old fashioned buzz.

The match caught and Dean curled his fingers around the flame giving it a chance to assert itself strongly.

The annoyance he felt at his brother quickly turned to concern when from the corner of his eye he saw Sam picked up and thrown with barely a cry. Dean was mildly relieved that Bonner didn't go in for the choking the way he had with the guardians, he seemed to be having more fun playing with the elements in this plane of existence, showing off his power.

Adrenaline pulsed through Dean, because he knew he was next, he was the only target remaining.

Dean lowered the burning match to the other unfired heads and created a small fireball in his hand. No random gust of wind was going to blow that sucker out. Just as he tightened his arm to throw the burning box into the coffin he felt what he _knew_ was coming, a block of air rammed into his body and catapulted him to a far corner of the yard. He just had time to flick his wrist and toss the fireball toward the coffin and watch it drop short only a few inches. With a sinking heart he knew they were going to have to work their way to the coffin all over again.

-------

"He looks like Charlie." Ada's words were hollow, eerily calm, so full of emotion that it sounded like no emotion at all. "That could be Charlie."

"It's _not _Charlie," Maud said fiercely, squeezing her friend's hand tight and silently cursing Dean's resemblance to Ada's far away son. "It's not Charlie. And those boys will be fine. A few bumps and bruises. They're tough kids."

Ada kept looking straight ahead, as if she hadn't heard. "We should be helping them," she said quietly. "How can we just watch? How will we live with ourselves?"

-------

Sam crawled around the edge of the yard. He hadn't fared quite so well from the latest rough treatment. He'd struck the fence hard and could feel blood trickling down his head into the collar. And he wasn't sure if his right wrist was broken, it throbbed hard and heavy, and he couldn't flex his hand up and down. It had an inherent weakness from being broken earlier in the year anyway so it wouldn't take much to break it again.

He held the limb protectively against his chest as he made slow progress toward where he'd heard rather than seen his brother crash to the ground.

A quick glance toward the coffin told him it wasn't alight. He could see the flaming match book, it burned bright, mocking him so close to the box. And he knew he should do something about that, charge forward and dunk the flames into the casket, take whatever consequences it brought. A burn to his hand? He could live with that. But he just… couldn't right now. He couldn't charge. He wasn't ready for the pain. He needed a few minutes to lick his wounds and pull himself together.

He noticed that all of the guardians were back, standing defiantly before Bonner. It was the first time in his life that he was grateful to see spirits. He hoped they could keep Bonner at bay while he and Dean took a minute to recover.

There was an agonized groan from Dean a few feet in front and it spurred him to move more quickly to his brother's side.

"What's the damage?" Sam said as he reached Dean and found him laying on his back, flat out and strangely stiff, his whole body tensed trying to remain absolutely still. Panting breaths and a lack of witty rejoinder told Sam something serious was going on, sparking a deep concern. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"I think… I've been…mistaken for a vampire," Dean gasped.

Sam frowned at the oblique response. In the dark it was so hard to make out if Dean was bleeding, where and how he was injured.

"A little less cryptic Dracula," Sam replied. "Give me an area where I should be looking."

Dean groaned and his breathing became raspy and labored.

"Whatever you're doing, just stop," Sam demanded, prickling with fear, "and tell me what the problem is."

"You can tell Dave…I found his wooden stake…we're up close and personal."

"Oh shit," Sam whispered, finally understanding what Dean was indirectly telling him. He was impaled on a stake, probably some sort of surveyor's marker that had been protruding from the ground. Sam sat back with his shoulders slumped and gazed in open dismay at his brother. "Shit Dean."

"It's okay," Dean said quickly, aware that Sam was jumping to the worst conclusions, probably thinking he was staked through the heart or something. "I mean it's not okay, but it could be worse. An inch to the right and it would have missed me completely. I could almost rip it out through the side," he grimaced, "but that would hurt like a mother."

"Where is it?"

"On the left, near my waist."

Sam carefully climbed over his brother so that he was on his left side and sure enough, he could see a trail of blood glimmering in the moonlight, forming a little pool in a cleft of sand. Above it, Dean's t-shirt tented oddly, the piercing stake was pushing the material out to the side, the sharp tip barely visible through a small rip.

As gently as he could Sam peeled back the t-shirt and could see more clearly the wood exiting at the extreme left of the stomach, the head of it poking through the skin, dark with blood. The stake wasn't thick, it looked like a sharpened broomstick, and it angled away from vital organs, so close to the body's edge that Sam suspected it was a penetrating flesh wound rather than a life threatening injury.

He stared at it for a moment, mesmerised by how wrong it looked, a spear coming out of his brother, and squirmed at the thought of how uncomfortable it must be.

He couldn't see the entry point, it was somewhere beneath Dean, and he needed to know how much wood was embedded to fully gauge the severity of the injury.

"Brace yourself," Sam warned as he gently eased his fingers underneath Dean's body, wincing at his brother's sharp intake of breath and involuntary groan. He found the stake entering Dean's back about an inch in from the side and running his fingers all around it discovered it had snapped under Dean's weight, but the wood hadn't broken cleanly, a small part of it was bending at the break maintaining a bridge between the piece in the ground and the piece in Dean.

From entry to exit the wound was about three inches long, running just under the skin, a raised furrow showing its path. It could have been worse, a lot worse if something vital had been pierced. Sam relaxed a little, felt a wash of relief that was probably disproportionate to the circumstances because it was still a gruesome injury, but compared to how serious it _could_ have been Dean was incredibly lucky.

Even so, Sam didn't doubt it was painful. And it was going to be even more painful getting the stake out.

With a quick flick of his wrist, Sam twisted the piece in the ground to complete the break, separating the pieces into two.

"Oh Christ Sam," Dean choked, as he drew in a ragged breath and his muscles corded tight before slowly releasing.

"Sorry man. You were attached to the ground."

Dean didn't reply and Sam refused to look at his face, not wanting to know if it had gotten too much for him. He examined the stake, considering the mechanics of getting it out. He knew he had to pull from the top, follow the direction that it went in so the wood didn't splinter inside the wound. If he thought there was a chance they would end up at an emergency room later he might have left the stake where it was and waited for it to be professionally removed, but the likelihood of them seeking medical assistance was low, just too risky when they had so recently escaped custody.

"Take care of Bonner," Dean demanded hoarsely.

Sam glanced over at the evil spirit, saw he was distracted with the guardians and replied, "He can wait."

"Take care of Bonner first," Dean insisted. "This can wait."

Sam figured Dean had forgotten he was liberally doused with accelerant.

He noticed the matchbook Dean had thrown was still alight, the flames now low, but there were pinpricks of ember floating above it, the swirl of wind tossing flammable items, paper and wood, into the flames and lighting them. If one of those embers landed in the coffin then Bonner might be the master of his own demise.

"I'm doing this first," Sam told his brother firmly. It was worth waiting five minutes to see if they caught a break with the embers and the sooner that foreign object was removed from Dean's body, the better as far as Sam was concerned.

With his right arm out of commission, he wrapped his left hand around the stake in a firm, sure grip and stated, "I'm counting to three."

Dean was abruptly quiet, protests died on his lips as he realized this was going to happen, ready or not, and he began taking deep, preparatory breaths. Sam counted evenly and on three tugged the stake through his brother hard and fast, determined that the stake come out in one pull.

Dean held his breath to hold back the roar, squeezed everything tight to try and dull the white hot pain. He arched off the ground, following the stake's trail as it left his body, and collapsed back to the soil with a low choking moan. Breathing was hard for a few minutes, rapid and shallow, loud and rough, and he wavered between here and gone, on the cusp of passing out. His body automatically curled in on itself, rolled to the side away from Sam, his legs coming up to form a ball.

It was awkward for Sam to press down on the wound, Dean's change in position meant he was trying to apply pressure sideways. And it didn't make things any easier that he had one working hand and two places that required attention. But Dean had a hand clamped against his stomach so Sam concentrated on the wound at the back, mopping up the blood with the hem of Dean's ruined t-shirt until the flow slowed to a trickle.

Dean coughed and gasped, winced and grunted with a gradually decreasing tenor until his breathing settled, the rhythm evened out. With a deep sigh he rolled toward Sam, onto his back and started laughing weakly. "Oh man. I have a new sympathy for every creature we've ever staked."

"Nah dude, you weren't staked you were skewered, that's like an extreme piercing. In some cultures it's a rite of passage, you'd be considered a man now."

Dean huffed a breath. "I'm thrilled to have it confirmed."

Sam wasn't really feeling it, the flippancy. He'd just pulled a stake through his brother, he was covered in blood, there was nothing humorous about it. But it was the game they played, the game Dean insisted upon, the shrugging off of injury, the hopeful pretense that minimising an injury would make it a minimal injury. Sam knew from experience that if he tried to play it differently, tried to emphasise the seriousness of the wound, he'd get sullenness in response, an unpleasant disapproving silence. It was easier to play the game.

Dean pushed himself up from his uninjured side until he was sitting cross legged, his body sagging heavily, staring at the coffin.

"I'll do it," Dean uttered in a low voice and his mind was back on the job, referring to the bones that needed to be fired up. "I don't want you going up in flames." He'd remembered that Sam was covered in accelerant.

"Just wait," Sam responded, squinting at the coffin. "It might get done for us."

Dean followed his brother's gaze and saw the embers dancing directly over the casket, slowly getting lower, understood that a fortuitous gust could set the prepared coffin on fire. And if they could finish the job without him having to get up that would be a most welcome turn of events because he was uncertain of his ability to do anything physical, although he wasn't going to let on to Sam how shaky and weak he felt_._

He shifted his gaze to Bonner, battling the guardians and enjoying it immensely because he kept winning, he was undeniably more powerful in the afterlife and with a very long score to settle. He had already disposed of two of them, again, and was facing down the third with a gleeful smile. Dean looked away, not really in the mood for watching another brutal afterlife death.

"I don't know that we can wait too long," he murmured. "Where are the guns? We need to be prepared."

They swiveled their heads around the yard. Sam remembered he had left his gun by the coffin while he had poured out the accelerant, and he'd flown through the air holding the gun Dean had given him to reload, so that gun had to be close, it had to be somewhere near where he landed. He narrowed his eyes in the darkness, looking in the likely vicinity, but there was a frustrating amound of debris on the ground and it all looked vaguely gun sized.

"There's got to be one to our right somewhere," Sam stated, clueing in his brother.

They scanned fruitlessly for a few minutes from where they sat and Dean wondered why his brother didn't physically move to the right of the yard, try and find the gun in closer proximity. He glared at Sam with thin lipped annoyance and then noticed, for the first time, the way he was protectively holding his right arm, saw the smear of blood at his collar and came to the grim realization that Sam wasn't in much better condition than he was. Which triggered his sense of responsibility, his sense of what had to be done. Dean had to finish the job, he needed to shake off his injury and bring this job to a decisive end, they couldn't just sit around and hope that fortune smiled on them.

Bonner was sounding the death knell for the guardian in his grasp, pushing his advantage seeking the point of short circuit. He looked at the brothers and bellowed, "I'm coming for you next. I'm gonna tear you apart."

Dean swallowed. "That sounds awesome."

He lurched to his feet, using his brother's shoulder for leverage, and clutched at his stomach, not quite able to straighten. He staggered a few steps to the right, looking for the gun but was having difficulty seeing _anything _past the spots in his vision.

"Just a little lower," Sam urged desperately, intent upon the floating pin pricks of fire, _willing_ them into the coffin.

"Luck was never really our friend," Dean commiserated.

The air around them was coming alive, sand was kicking up low to the ground and Sam tore his eyes from the embers to see that Bonner was heading toward them, in disjointed slicing movements that always seemed unfair, the way spirits could cheat the laws of nature. He climbed to his feet and moved to stand by his brother, shoulder to shoulder and unarmed, to face the evil spirit together.

Suddenly the air crackled a few feet before them and the guardians asserted themselves, deliberately between the brothers and Bonner, powered up and prepared to martyr themselves to protect the human lives. The unearthly glow of the guardians lit the ground around the boys and Dean spotted the nearby gun. He lunged for it, a surge of adrenalin taking away his pain and making him nimble, snatched up the weapon, took quick aim at Bonner and pulled the trigger.

The salt blew a hole through the middle of the evil spirit and through that window, flames could be seen dancing high in the coffin.

Dean gave a holler of triumph, chuckled in relieved delight and then rested his palms on his knees as the temporary high drained away and the sad state of his body pushed to the fore. "Thank God," he murmured.

Bonner halted his advance, sensing something was wrong, feeling his power diminish. He held his hands up in front of him and watched as the fingers fizzled away turning to dust, down his hands and up his arms. He roared in anger.

Sam loped over to his brother with a smile on his face. "Maybe luck is our friend after all."

"I love it when a plan comes together," Dean grinned. He swayed and sat down as gingerly as was possible with his legs collapsing underneath him, put his head in his hands and indulged in a moment of self pity.

"What the hell?" Sam muttered.

"Nothing," Dean answered without looking at him. "Just a little blood loss is all."

When Sam didn't reply Dean glanced up to find his brother staring open mouthed at something across the yard.

-----

"What now?" Ada wailed in a hush. She was sitting on the ground, despair sapping her energy, and the other two had followed suit. "When will this end?"

A glow of light flickered and shuddered directly across the yard from them, beyond Bonner's alight coffin. It was like a tv set warming up, the bubble of light gradually expanding until it suddenly sliced up and out and three figures were standing there, a woman and two young girls.

"Madeline and Elizabeth," Ada uttered in awe. She hadn't seen any photos of the girls, she had no reason to be so certain of their identity, but she knew who it was all the same.

The little girls jumped up and down excitedly as they gazed in the direction of the three guardians. With a smile and a wave to the newcomers Ed Scheifflin and Eleanor Dumont flickered out and disappeared, leaving Joseph Tranter staring at the women with an astonished look on his face. He took a few hesitant steps toward them then turned and nodded in the direction of the brothers, gave them a lingering look of gratitude, an acknowledgement of a joint victory, then turned back to the women and took some fast steps, hurrying toward them with outstretched arms and joy on his face. When he reached the little group there was a blinding flash of light, so bright that Ada had to duck her face away and when she looked back a few seconds later the night was dark, empty, the spirits were all gone.

Dave, Ada and Maud didn't move, unsure if there was more to come and too stunned to get up and walk away if there wasn't.

Tears ran down Ada's cheeks. It was so quiet, so still after the upheaval with Bonner that she didn't want to break the peace with a sob or a sniffle and she kept her breathing low and even so as not to interrupt the welcome silence.

It wasn't until they heard the boys shuffling around the yard, talking to each other without urgency, that Dave whispered, "I think it's over," and stood up stiffly. "I'm going to go home and have a large drink or five."

Dave held out his hands, one for each woman and pulled them both to a stand.

"I'm going to go make sure those boys are alright," Ada stated as she wiped the wetness from her cheeks.

"No," Maud hissed. "You're going to blow the whole covert operation."

"Maud we saw them tossed all over this yard. I'm not going to leave without knowing they're alright."

"They're fine," Maud insisted, but there was uncertainty in her tone. "They're walking, they're talking, they're fine."

Ada frowned at her friend. "I'll see you at home later."

Maud sighed. She wasn't going to leave without Ada. And now that Ada had planted the seed that the boys might be hurt, she wasn't going to leave without knowing they were alright.

Ada picked her way noiselessly down the side of the building to the yard. Dean was leaning heavily against the back wall, doubled over clutching his stomach, calling out instructions to Sam about things that needed to be collected. There were dark patches on the lightly painted exterior next to where he stood and Ada squinted at them as she approached, trying to figure out what they were, and then realized to her horror that it was blood, every time he moved he left a patch of color.

"Dean," she cried in alarm.

He hadn't seen her approach. It was taking all his concentration to stay on task, remain upright, ignore the ache throughout his body and the weariness that desperately wanted to claim him. The unexpected voice to his left made him jump, take a step away and turn quickly in that direction, too many things to be doing at once. His legs tangled together, tripping him over backward and he landed heavily on the ground, seated thanks to some clumsy grabbing but the jarring impact elicited a long, agonized groan and for a moment his senses left him, he wasn't aware of anything beyond how much he hurt.

Someone was talking, too fast for him to follow. There were hands on his face, tilting his head up and he didn't like the attention, didn't like the invasion of space. He pulled his head away from the grip with a mumbled _don't_.

"Dean? Dean! Open your eyes and tell me you're okay."

The female voice confused him. It was supposed to be just him and Sam at the site. Suddenly he lost all grip on what was going on. He wondered if maybe he'd passed out and been taken to a hospital, his sluggish mind was struggling to make sense.

"I'm okay," he mumbled and cracked open his eyes. When he saw Ada peering at him with Maud close behind it didn't help his disorientation. "Where am I?"

"At Dave's construction site. You just did your burny thing and I think the ghosts are all gone."

She was regarding him critically, looking very worried and he wanted to protest that that's where he thought he was, it was the women's presence that was confusing him. How long had they been on the scene? _Why_ were they on the scene?

"What are you doing here?" he asked in bewilderment. As the haze in his head began to clear he realized that they shouldn't be here, that he had specifically asked them not to be. "I thought I told you to stay away," he angrily reproached and glared at the blonde haired woman. But his indignation subsided as his gaze traversed her figure and he became distracted by the formal attire. "Wait. What are you wearing? Are you going to a prom?"

Ada was saved from answering by Dave approaching with an arm across Sam's back, leading him toward the building. "I'll do it Sam, I've got it covered. You go and lie down, you look beat."

"No...but…" Sam's head craned over his shoulder, looking at the yard and the equipment that needed to be picked up.

"I can do it Sam," Dave persisted. "You don't need any special skills to clean up. Now go and take care of yourself."

Maud stretched her arms out wide, like she was going to hug Sam, but seeing the way he held his right forearm close to his chest she changed her mind and instead cupped his jaw in her hands, splaying her fingers across his cheeks and gave him a rueful smile.

"You boys are crazy," she said, with such reverence and affection that it sounded like _you boys are wonderful_.

Sam's gave her a weary grin and felt a blush creep up his neck, embarrassed but pleased by her fondness and concern.

Maud dropped one hand from Sam's face and shifted the other to gently stroke her fingers through his hair, combing the stray tendrils up and over his ear. It was so comforting that he closed his eyes, wanting to give in to it, to lay down and be taken care of. He swayed a little and Maud pressed a hand against his chest to keep him steady.

"I know angel," she soothed, the endearment slipping unselfconsciously from her lips, sounding so natural. "I know you've had a long night. Just a little while longer and you can rest."

Sam responded to the benign mothering tone immediately, opening his eyes and nodding compliantly.

"I suppose a hospital's out of the question?" Ada said disapprovingly, she already knew the answer.

"Damn straight," Dean replied and flung a hand against the wooden siding to push himself to a stand. Ada immediately moved to his side, the less bloodied side, and helped him to rise then slung his arm around her neck to steady him.

"Come on. Let's get you boys home," she said gently.


End file.
